Devil's Kindred
by Moonlitdaze
Summary: Iris Murdock is finally returning to Hell's Kitchen, her childhood home, after years away. Unfortunately, the city she left behind is home to memories of her father's murder and a brother who thinks she abandoned him. As she struggles to reconcile past, present, and future, her beloved little brother's own inner devils threaten to steer her life on a new, terrifying course.
1. Hell, Home, or Somewhere in Between

**My muse tossed this at my feet, and I couldn't let it go.**

 **So, here we are.**

 **A disclaimer that I do not own Daredevil or any of its characters. Some bits of dialogue are from the show itself, and Daredevil and all associated with it are the intellectual property of Netflix and Marvel and all involved. I'm merely a fan just writing a story. I do, however, own Iris and any subsequent OCs that may appear.**

 **I've been wanting to write for this fandom for awhile now, and instead of dipping my toe in it, I'm diving right in!**

 **So, anyway, without further ado:**

 **Devil's Kindred!**

* * *

 _H_ _ell, Home, or Somewhere In-Betwe_ _en_

Iris held the crumpled piece of paper tightly in her hands, trying to calm her breathing. She unfolded it for the fiftieth time, eyes pouring over the address, though she really didn't have to. She'd memorized it already. Frowning, she cast a side-long glance at the white paper bag sitting beside her. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but she wondered if the gesture may be a bit…much. As if a cheap pastry was going to help make this reunion any easier.

"You gonna get out or what?" the cabbie scoffed, narrowing his eyes at her in the rearview mirror.

"Sorry," Iris muttered, swiping her purse from the seat next to her. She hastily tossed the wad of cash, crisp and clean and fresh from the airport ATM, into the front seat. The cabbie muttered something to her, but she was outside before it could reach her ears. She had to keep moving before she changed her mind.

Her heels made frantic clicks against the pavement as she moved towards the block of apartments. A structure that looked like it had seen better days. She had to admit, her ensemble may have been a bit pristine for this part of town. She probably stood out in the worst way possible, years away from this city taking out every ounce of the native in her.

"Oh, hell," she muttered, trying to at least appear like she half-way knew what she was doing as she finally found the courage to enter the building. To rip off the Band-Aid, to propel herself into the turmoil, the tension and betrayal, the emotional shit-show this reunion was about to be. Before she could change her mind, she clicked the buzzer.

"Yeah," the gruff voice from the little box at the door. Iris tossed her weight from foot to foot.

"Um, here to visit a resident," her voice cracked. "He's, um…not expecting me. Murdock. Matthew Murdock."

There was an irate sigh, which Iris guessed she wasn't supposed to hear, before the door clicked open. _No going back now,_ she thought.

The lift was sketchy as anything, and so she braved the stairs. Gave her more time to think this through, at least. Each creak in the ancient steps a tiny whisper, asking her if she really wanted to do this. He'd hate her. Probably _did_ hate her. _She_ hated her for it, the selfish decisions she'd made. He'd have no reason to want to see her again.

She flinched a little at her own choice on language. She'd been good about it, before, when they were younger. When things were simpler. But….years away had made her sloppy, thoughtless.

The door loomed before her, her heart quickening a little as she stood….staring. Her eyes traced the apartment number, her hand shakily raising to meet the wood. She barely registered that she was knocking. A quick, loud wrap with shaking hands.

There was only silence at first, and Iris was about to scamper away, half-relieved in defeat, when the voice sounded. "Yeah. Yeah. Wait."

Iris's chest squeezed, her stomach dropping to her feet. She crumbled the paper bag in her hands, her breathing quickening. The door flew open and she was staring right into tinted lenses. Old sweats, a hoodie, messy brown hair. He leaned lazily against the doorframe. Had she woken him up?

"Matty," the name tumbled from her mouth before she could even begin to think about it. He shifted, straightening up. She wasn't sure if he recognized her voice. Time and a new location had morphed her proud New-York dialect into something vaguely Southern. There was more Charlotte than Hell's Kitchen in her vernacular now.

"Iris."

Or maybe she should give him more credit….

She couldn't tell if he was angry. The way he said her name was more numb shock than anything. Even so, just hearing her name in his voice sent a stab of guilt shooting up her spine.

"I…" she started lamely, crinkling the bag in her hands again. "I brought éclairs from Ethan's. That place where we used to go with D…"

"I know what Ethan's is," he cut her off. Yep, there was the anger…

She didn't know what to say, but she didn't have to come up with anything. He pinched the bridge of his nose, whole body heaving with a sigh, and stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Come in."

She hesitated for a moment before taking the invitation, drinking in the apartment. The only light was that which filtered through the windows. And there wasn't much in way of decorations either. But it seemed nice enough. Especially by Hell's Kitchen standards.

"What are you doing here?" he accused, door slamming behind him. He moved slowly, carefully, as if his muscles were screaming beneath his skin.

"Matty, I know you're mad at me. I…."

"Mad?" he scoffed. "I'm not mad, Iris. I'm apathetic. As apathetic as you were when you up and left and never came back."

Iris's breath hitched. The comment was like an uppercut to the jaw, no matter how much she'd prepared for it.

 _"_ _Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."_

The automated voice startled Iris, cutting through the tension like a knife. Matty's head titled in the direction of the sound and he shuffled away, gesturing in Iris's direction, silently telling her to wait.

"Yeah," his voice floated from the other room.

 _"_ _Good morning sunshine,"_ the voice of "Foggy" rang from the other line on speaker.

"What time is it?" Matty sighed, trying and failing to keep the strain from his voice. Iris took a step forward toward the doorway. He was perched on the edge of his bed, shifting in response to the sound of her heels. She paused, not wanting to intrude any more than she already had.

 _"_ _Half past get the hell up. Let's go. We gotta meet the real estate agent in forty-five."_

Matty let a barely audible groan push its way past his lips.

 _"_ _Was that a moan? Do you have someone in bed with you? Murdock, is there a woman in your apartment? The paralegal? Is it the para over at….you know what, never mind. I don't want to know."_ A beat. _"Just kidding. I do wanna hear about it. What's mystery girl like?"_

A frown mars Matty's face. "Unexpected." Iris shifted her weight again.

 _"_ _Gotta get the blind thing going,"_ Foggy sighed. _"So unfair."_

"Trust me, Fog, it isn't what you think."

 _"_ _If you say so. Listen, on the subject of women: real estate agent. So not your type. Very homely. Might be genetic. No need to be charming. And she kind of told me she thinks blind people are 'God's mistake'."_

Iris, in spite of herself, rolled her eyes.

"That's a horrible thing to say, Foggy," Matt sighed, echoing Iris's thoughts, but with a tiny smile on his face.

 _"_ _I know! In this day and age! Alright, shake it. Gonna go bribe a cop."_

"Foggy," Matt said, a ghost of a laugh hidden in the word.

 _"_ _Kidding, NSA, if you're listening,"_ Foggy snorted. _"But seriously, yeah. Gotta go bribe a cop. See you in forty five."_

The line went dead, the absence of Foggy—strange name—a sealing of the airlock that had been temporarily venting the tension in the room. Matt stayed on the bed, pretending to ignore Iris for a whole minute. His fingers grabbing bunches of his sheets.

"Who was that?" Iris asked, deciding to end the pretense. She kept herself in the doorway, not daring to cross into his bedroom. A million memories of a different life—Iris walking past his open door, checking on him to make sure he was doing his homework like he was supposed to—stirred just at the back of her mind. She squashed them down.

Matt stood up, rigid and slow, and moved toward his closet. "You don't get to just wedge yourself back in my life, Iris." He disappeared, his clipped tone accompanied by the sound of rustling hangers.

She folded her arms, tears threatening to spill. She knew this wasn't exactly going to be an _easy_ reunion. Knew he was going to be pissed at her. But thinking about it, preparing for it, was different than living it.

"Matty, we were _kids…_ "

His head reappeared, fingers skillfully working up the buttons of his cheap dress shirt. "Iris, you and I both know the _leaving_ wasn't the issue. It was the never coming back. Not for graduations. Holidays. Anything. You were a ghost, Iris. All I got were letters. Letters the sisters had to read to me." Every word is blunt and cutting. Pushing Iris closer and closer to the tears she was desperate not to shed.

 _If he'd seen me preparing letters in Braille, Dr. Manson would have known who I was sending it to,_ Iris screamed in her head. In her mind, she pulled Matty into an embrace and explained everything. How the only contact Dr. Manson had let her keep was with their old church. Despite everything, Dr. Manson claimed himself to be a devout catholic. He always brought Iris along to masses. He'd even let her have on connection to her old life. Her family's old parish. Anything she'd manageable to smuggle to Matty had been through their priest, Father Lantom. A rare bright spot. He'd been unable to strip her of her faith.

Iris looked down at her feet—at her stupid, impractical shoes. Her throat was impossibly dry. A lump formed from pent-up tears. She'd been desperate to do more, but….

In her mind's eye, all she could see were stern grey eyes, a hand ripping her cell phone out of her hands. "How did you get that number, Iris?"

As Matty stood there, all anger and betrayal, Iris couldn't help but scold herself. _You should have tried harder to sneak around him. Done_ something _else to bridge the silence…anything._ If she'd done more, maybe her attempts to reach out would be successful. Guilt made her hold her tongue.

"Who's Foggy?" she asked again, mostly because she had little else to say. Anything else would be a lie. And they both knew how impossible it was to lie to Matty.

His hands found his hips. "My friend and business partner. We're starting our own firm."

"Your own firm? You're a lawyer?"

She half-expected him to say, "You would know that, if you'd bothered to keep in touch." _If you'd done more…._

He doesn't. Instead, he tries for something only slightly less cutting. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be with Dr. Manson, giving a roman numeral analysis of passages of music or whatever it is you do?"

"He died," Iris's voice broke. She covered it up as a cough. "Stroke. A month ago. Figured that was my cue to move on."

That actually softened him. "Iris, I'm sorry—"

She didn't want to think of it. She'd been trying and trying to process. To work through the sludge of conflicting emotions. She'd been on autopilot since it happened, her hastily planned return to New York sufficient distraction from the conundrum that was her feelings over Dr. Manson's death.

"Like I said, it was my cue to move on. It is what it is."

His head was tilted just slightly towards her, his mouth set into a thin line. A little twitch in his jaw. She could _feel_ the scrutiny. She was very conscious of her heart, hammering against her ribs.

 _"_ _Iris, dad was lying. About having enough for rent this month,"_ _nine-year-old Matty's voice echoed in the back of her mind._ _"People's hearts beat differently when they lie. Their hearts always beat louder than their voices, if I listen hard enough. Did you know that?"_

A time when he'd been comfortable enough with her to share his secrets, ones he'd kept even from their dad. A time of togetherness, of solidarity. A time long-gone. A time Dr. Manson had wanted to erase.

Silence followed. Uncomfortable, heavy. Iris's self-loathing eating away at her.

"I really should go," Matt finally said. They both knew he'd heard her lie, every rapid heartbeat of it. Their _awareness_ was tangible, a strange shift in the silence. The anger had actually started to dribble away from Matt's voice. The tidal wave of emotion finally seemed to have run its course, allowing room for rationality. A single sped-up heartbeat had let him know there was more to all this. Their greatest secret, their tightest bond as siblings, might be the thing that brings them back from the edge.

"Right. I, um, have to get to my apartment anyway. Still have a ton of unpacking to do." She started backing towards the door. "I'll leave the éclairs on your coffee table. You can, um, take them to Foggy or...something." She turned on a heel, berating herself, a sick feeling in her stomach. She was ready to get out of the apartment, to get herself out of his life again, like he so clearly wanted.

"Iris."

She stopped on a dime, whirling around.

"Coffee? Tomorrow morning? Ethan's?"

The question hit her in tidal waves. A simple request, a baby step in the direction of healing, and yet….

Her whole body relaxed, overtaken with a shudder of relief. "Yes," she managed. She crossed to the coffee table, dropping the Ethan's bag. "Eight?"

"Right."

"I'll….see you tomorrow then," she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. Certainly not the tear-filled hug-fest forgiveness of a Hallmark movie, but coffee was better than nothing. "Give me your phone, I'll put my number in."

He held out his smartphone, unlocked and ready for input, and she quickly punched in her number.

"I….missed you," he muttered, and she finally allowed herself a tiny, sad smile as she handed him back his cell.

"Same, Baby Brother."

* * *

Iris had to give herself a minute before she entered her new apartment, not quite ready to face her new roommate again. Josephine Zhou, a cellist also employed by Iris's new boss, was nice enough, but she was a little…. _present_ for Iris's taste. She'd spent most of last night prying into questions that Iris wasn't ready to answer. At least not to a stranger. Thankfully, Josephine, like Iris, had a second job at nights, so at least Iris got a few hours of quiet.

"You're back!" Josephine grinned as soon as Iris walked for the door. The cellist was in a posture chair, her instrument out. Her pink robe and pajama pants were still on, black hair up in a messy bun, her glasses sliding down the brim of her nose. Almond shaped brown eyes alive and alert and shimmering, zeroed in on her music. "How were your errands?"

"Fine," Iris said, wiggling her finger, balancing her key ring. It made a satisfying little jingle. "I was actually going to grab my oboe and head into the conservatory for awhile, get used to my studio. Gotta be ready for my first lesson on Monday. Practice a little."

"Someone's dedicated," Josephine shrugged, already focusing back on her music. The cello started up again as Iris went to her bedroom, kicking off her heels and throwing herself onto the old twin. The mattress shuddered and creaked under her weight.

She'd had a queen, a comfortable one, in Dr. Manson's apartment. A soundproof room for practicing, where Iris spent most of her time. Manson had never practiced in the living room in his pajamas, never greeted her with an off-kilter little grin, welcoming her back. Though her apartment here was far tinier than anything she was used to, she'd never felt so free.

She'd never lived with someone else before. Doctor Manson made her commute to her college, insisted on her living with him even through her grad school. It had been a long time since she'd lived in tight quarters, but she'd never felt more free.

Iris decided to get out of her bed before her reflection could turn to self-pity. Replacing her heels with more conservative flats, she grabbed her oboe and music bag—the only things besides clothes she had bothered to use since arriving—and heading for the front door. Josephine tossed a half-wave to Iris on the way out.

The Aldridge Youth Conservatory—Iris's place of employment—was just a block down the street, so she didn't even have to hail a cab. She still wasn't used to seeing the tall brick structure again, at least not without getting hit by an in tense wave of nostalgia.

She had so many memories of late nights, doing her homework in the "recital hall" (she'd barely call it that now, given that she'd gotten to play in a lot more places since) after her lesson while she waited for the others in her carpool group to finish theirs. Mrs. Aldridge, the owner/operator's well-meaning but stern mother, always watched after the "carpool kids," the group of students enrolled in the conservatory that needed after lesson care and rides home. She was adamant on students doing their homework as soon as possible, something Iris's father was always happy about.

When Mrs. Aldridge finally stepped out, naively trusting the children to do their work as they were told, Iris always snuck up the employee's lounge, turning the TV to watch her dad's fights. She'd always kept the volume low, sitting in front of the old set on high alert, expecting Mrs. Aldridge to come back in at any minute.

Her fingers moved on autopilot as she typed in the entry code she'd kept locked in her memory.

The doors made a satisfying echo as Iris let herself in, the sounds of Saturday lessons bouncing through the halls. An alto sax, running smoothly through scales. A piano hectically producing a sonata. Fragments of melodies behind each door. Iris took a deep breath. _Home._

Her studio was the third door on the left, second floor. It overlooked an alleyway, but she didn't really care all that much. The previous teacher's name had been hastily scratched off the door, Iris's name now in fresh, bold text.

 _Iris Murdock, Oboe and Clarinet._ Her last name—her real one, the one Manson had made her change, the first thing she'd taken back after he'd died—looked so satisfying.

The small space had been scrubbed clean of its last inhabitant, nothing more than plain walls, an old piano, and a couple of music stands stashed in the corner. A desk, the wood worn out and stained, nestled right under the window. A bare corkboard, freckled with tiny microscopic punctures from pushpins. A half-emptied bookshelf with yellowing scores. It wasn't much, but it was enough. A permanent space and a stream of income that only required one extra job to support her. She tentatively tested the piano, pleased to find it satisfactorily in tune. Yes, this would do nicely.

Glaring at the blank wall, Iris fell into her desk chair, the old thing squeaking under her weight but holding steady. She had one piece of decoration so far, but she'd never hung up, an old laminated newspaper clipping she'd morbidly kept all these years, a token of her past she'd never parted with. She'd hid it under her bed back when she lived with Dr. Manson, who would have made her throw it away if he knew she still had it. _"You shouldn't dwell on it, Iris. It's a part of your life you should move on from."_

His raspy baritone of a voice. The smell of expensive cigars and wine. All of it came back in that memory.

 _Well, old man,_ she unclasped her leather music bag, carefully removing the old clipping. _I've come running right back to the past you wanted me to forget. How do you like that?_

 _Carl Crusher Creel vs. Battlin' Jack Murdock._ The worlds glared at her, their solemn simplicity, the bitter tale they wove, making Iris shiver. She opened her desk drawer, gently lowering the article inside.

A phantom memory of her father in the front row at one of her recitals, his eye blackened and swollen. Dressed in a cheap suit, looking so strange and disjointed with nice clothes and a screwed up face. Matty, squirming around in his own "fancy" clothes. Iris, proud and smiling, curtseying in her frilly hand-me-down dress. That had been all she needed in the world. Her dad, her brother, and her first clarinet.

Her dad had been so proud of them, Matty and Iris.

She let out a shuddering breath, slamming the drawer shut. She only hoped she could fix at least some of what she'd ruined.

* * *

Ethan's Diner smelled like bacon grease and perfectly brewed coffee at all hours of the day. The little bell on the door always jangled merrily when a new customer walked in. The whole place always looked like a garage sale vomited all over the walls. Novelty decor—proudly displaying everything from framed vintage Captain America comic books, to signed _Star Trek_ posters, to local celebrities enjoying a meal in the red plastic booths.

"Your shift doesn't start 'til well into tonight, Sweetie."

Iris smiled as she approached the counter, settling into one of the stools. "Actually here to meet my brother for breakfast, Andy."

Andy took a coffee cup from behind the counter, setting it before Iris and pouring from the steaming pot she was carrying. Iris silently watched the older woman scolding Matty and Iris for the bubble blowing contests they had with their chocolate milk, all with a smile on her deeply tanned face.

Iris had been thankful for her connection with Andy when she'd been searching for another job. Hell, she wouldn't be here without her connections at Aldridge. Dr. Manson would be livid at the bridges he'd wanted her to burn led her right back to the city he'd never wanted her to return to.

"Matthew comes in every now and again. Brings his friend. Nice young men, both of them."

"Foggy, right?" Iris grabbed the sugar container, sprinkling a generous amount into the thick black liquid.

"You've met him?" Andy leaned across the counter.

Iris thought back to yesterday morning, of the good-natured voice on the other line. "In a manner a speaking…."

"Waitress!" a man from the nearest booth called, holding up his coffee cup. "More please."

"When you get here tonight, I'm pawning all the difficult ones off to you," Andy winked.

"Fair enough," Iris took a slow sip of coffee. "You really helped me out giving me a job, it's the least I could do."

As Andy scurried off, the bell above the door let out its little jingle. Matt was there, cane leading his steps. Iris stiffened, suddenly a flustered mess. The next reaction was childhood instinct. She hoped off the chair, calling his name. He paused mid-step. The back of her hand touched his. He found her elbow, though he was hesitant to reach for her. He ultimately decided to accept the gesture, the familiar whole thing making her eleven years old again. At least for a moment.

"I'm glad you came," she managed, as they began walking towards the counter.

"Yeah," was all she got. It was better than nothing.

Iris almost preferred the tense air of his apartment. The rash emotions of earlier were far preferable to the sheer...awkwardness of their current silence.

"Matthew," Andy came right up to the siblings as soon as they were seated. "Good to see you again."

 _Bless you, Andy,_ Iris inwardly breathed. Like she could read Iris's mind, the older woman kept talking.

"How're things with Murdock and Nelson? Word's been floating around the neighborhood about it."

"Nelson and Murdock," Matty gently corrected, endearing smile on his face as his fingers searched for the cup Andy had set before him. "And, we're slowly but surely finding our footing. We have a client now."

"You found your first client?" Iris inserted herself.

For a half second, Matty's whole body rippled at her voice, posture guarded and wary. The hand not holding his coffee cup was balled into a fist. But one breath and he relaxed into his reply, "Yes."

"Jack would be proud of the two of you. Matty with his own firm, and Iris returning to Aldridge to teach. You little ones aren't so little anymore," Andy smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes sharpening. She grabbed the pencil stuck into her grey-streak bun, scribbling down something on her order pad. "Tell you what, you two. I'll put in a ticket for your old usuals. For old time's sake."

"Usual..." Iris started, but she was asking the question to Andy's retreating back.

"You're teaching at Aldridge now?" Matt's question stunned her. She drummed her fingers on the counter, careful with her next words. There was _so_ much she wanted to say, to explain. Much more than could be said over coffee at an old haunt.

"Yes. Mr. Aldridge was glad when I got back in touch. To have an old student willing to return as a teacher. I'm actually going to be working here a few nights a week too, just to pay the bills. It'll feel good to give back to the places that gave so much to us growing up, you know?"

Matt looked like he was going to say something, a ghost of a frown lingering beneath the surface of his features.

 _"_ _Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."_

The automated voice from Matt's phone startled them both, incessantly droning the name of Matt's business partner.

"I should..."

Iris coughed a bit. "Yeah. Yes, of course." _Stop talking_. "Go ahead."

Matt dug his mobile out of his pocket. "Fog?" There was a beat, Matt's expression twisting beneath his glasses. "She was what?" More talking, the few words Iris could make out frantic and breathless. Iris stared into the depths of her coffee, doing her best not to listen. "Okay, okay. Yeah, I'll head over."

He hung up, already standing. "That call was about our client. I need to get to the precinct." He started digging around in his suit jacket, presumably looking for money.

"Matt, I got it," Iris said. "Do what you gotta do."

"No, I can..." It was half of an argument, one he wasn't really willing to fight. Abandoning the other half of the sentence, he presented his wallet, fingers deftly running over his stash of bills. The two fives he presented were folded differently than the three ones he tossed in with them. His own way of differentiating. He was headed for the door before Iris could get a word in. All she could do was stare at the money.

Andy eventually brought out the orders, surprised by Matt's absence. The two plates piled with raisin toast, oatmeal, and bacon and the two tall glasses of chocolate milk were a little too much. Those two little kids, sitting on their knees in the bar stools and blowing bubbles in their milk, were long gone.

Iris tapped her finger on the side of her cool glass of milk, absently stirring it with the straw. Dr. Manson had succeeded in erasing that child. And, as Iris played over every agonizingly awkward second her "reunion" with Matty, she wondered if the old man had actually managed to destroy the girl Iris Murdock had been beyond repair.

* * *

Most of Iris's shift that night involved her and Andy watching the heavy rain trickle down the windows of Ethan's, only really having to deal with handfuls of patrons at a time. A set of twenty-something's—on the tail end of their "night on the town"—were currently in Iris's care. They weren't hard to deal with, just wanting a steady stream of coffee and, of course, Ethan's twenty-four-hour breakfast menu.

"….been given a month's leave. For counseling and all that." Iris expected the conversation to stop when she got to the table, but the speaker kept going as Iris topped off the group's drinks. "Said it was some man in a black mask that set them all free."

" _Those_ rumors," one of the others snorted. "Probably just some whack job inspired by all this hero worship we got going on after The Incident. I don't know, what's your take?"

Iris didn't realize right away she'd been addressed.

"I, uh, just moved back to the city. I haven't really heard anything about a masked guy."

"Just as well," one of the other women shrugged. "Most people who fight in the mask aren't usually on your side. Only reason he spites other criminals is probably to benefit himself."

"Oh, cause _you all_ are such experts," the first speaker said.

Iris took her cue to leave, scurrying back to Andy at the counter.

"Hearing more and more about that masked guy lately," the older woman said, lowly enough so the table couldn't here. She kept her eyes on the counter, the circular motion of the rag she was using to clean it.

"What have you heard about him?" Iris asked.

Andy paused her work, batting away a loose strand of greying hair. "Just that if he's as tough as they say he is, let's hope he's actually the good Samaritan some people want to make him. A man like that with the wrong agenda…."

The bell jingled, making Iris jump. Andy offered her a sympathetic smile. "Go take care of them, Honey. You'll be alright."

At the end of the night, after lock up, Andy offered a ride home. Iris took her up on the offer.

* * *

At first, she thought it was her alarm, telling her to get up for her first lesson at Aldridge. The one she'd set as a precaution. Just in case she was so tired from her first night at the diner that she didn't get up for a two-thirty after-school lesson. But it wasn't her alarm. It was her ringtone. Gustav Holst's "Jupiter" paired with an incessant vibration that didn't quite line up with the song's meter.

"Yeah. Hi," Iris slurred into the receiver, not fully roused yet.

"Iris."

Matt's voice on the other line finished the job of bringing her to consciousness. She sat up in bed, springs squealing beneath her sudden shift of weight. "Matt. Hey," she found herself over analyzing her voice. Too excited? Too eager? Maybe he'd take it as forced….

"Do you have lunch plans?"

She instantly thought of her empty fridge. Of the mounds of take-out boxes in the trash that told Iris Josephine wasn't too much of a cook. She and Iris had that in common, at least. "No. None. My first lesson isn't until later in the afternoon, so…"

"Good. So…our client I was telling you about. She's making us lunch as a thank you. Do you…maybe, want to join us at the office?"

His office. Nelson and Murdock. Finally putting a face to the name that kept chirping from his phone. Another step in the right direction, another invitation to another part of his life. An attempt to move beyond the unspoken questions and monosyllabic answers. She'd take any step in the right direction.

"Yes. I would love that. Let me get a pen and write down your address."

Iris ran into the kitchen, shuffling around the piles of sheet music, mail, and newspapers to try and find her notepad. She eventually found a blank sheet of paper right under the morning's copy of the New York Bulletin. She made slight note of the headline, _Union Allied Corruption Scandal,_ making a mental note to read it later, before she started scribbling down Matt's business address.

Nelson and Murdock was located in a fairly-standard brownstone office building a short cab ride from Iris's apartment. It was right next to a financial office, the door decorated with a paper sign. Sharpie spelled out the firm's name, the open door revealing fold-out chairs and table set for four. Unpacked boxes and un-placed furniture crowed the whole room. Despite the wide-open, wholly unfinished nature of the space, Iris found herself unable to just waltz in, so she gently wrapped her hand on the back of the door. "Hello?"

A stranger emerged from one of the offices, and Iris instantly guessed this was Foggy. If anyone could pull off the Moniker, it was this guy. Shorter and fuller than the Murdock half of the outfit, Nelson had an open and honest face. He was baby faced, with rounder features and fuller lips, but there was a sharpness to his blue eyes Iris couldn't miss.

"Hi," Iris adjusted the strap of her purse, searching for just what to say. She briefly wondered if Matt had said anything to Foggy about her. Or, if he had talked about her, _what_ he would say. "Matt invited me. I…"

"Hey, Iris. I see you've already met Foggy Nelson." She turned around to find mind in the doorway of the other office. "Glad you found us."

Matt still carried with him a cloud of tension, but she was beginning to notice every time they met it was a thinner and thinner tension. She could work with that. "Yeah. It's actually not too far from my place."

She looked around, trying to find a compliment hidden somewhere in the unpacked boxes, sharpie door sign, and fold out table. It was honestly a sort of endearing effort, the whole thing clearly a labor of love, but she wasn't sure if "charmingly disorganized" was the way Nelson or Murdock would want to hear their place described. Thankfully, she didn't have to worry about that for too long.

"You know," Foggy took the liberty on deciding how to break the ice. Cuttingly, with a really sharp pick. "Now that I know your so called 'Unexpected Girl' from yesterday, Graduation Girl, and Sister-We-Don't-Discuss are all one in the same, two of those stories just got a whole lot less zesty." Iris didn't miss the accusations hidden in his humor.

And so _that_ is how Matt had described her, how he'd talked of her absence with others. Sister-Who-We-Don't-Discuss.

It took her a minute to figure out where "Graduation Girl" had come from, but Iris remembered a Columbia Law graduation announcement finding its way to Dr. Manson's apartment ages ago. By some miracle, she'd swiped it before the old man could see it. She'd been careful, planning her whole escape in secret. A solid alibi. She'd been in the crowd, ready to find him, ready to thank him for this last-ditch effort to reach her, for the small bit of evidence he hadn't given up on reconciliation. But then Dr. Manson's hand on her arm, leading her out of the crowd while the proctor was still in the 'C' surnames. She hadn't even gotten a glimpse of Matty that day. And as far as he knew, his last attempt had gone ignored. She'd failed him one last time.

She'd spent so many sleepless nice since then, thinking of ways she could have been more careful, hidden her plans from Manson.

"Here we are! I…oh, hi."

The new voice was female, and Iris relished the interruption. A petite blonde, simply but elegant dressed, bearing a covered dish. Her smile dropped a bit when she saw Iris, but it was more confusion than distaste. Iris could work with confusion.

"She's spotted the sister," Foggy offered, coaxing a small smile on Matt's face.

"I think I gathered that. Karen, this is my older sister, Iris Manson. Iris, this is Karen Page."

He'd said sister, a tiny victory, but Iris nearly hit the ceiling when he said "Iris Manson."

"Murdock," the name tumbled quickly out of her lips, instantly quelling the bad taste just _hearing_ the name Manson uttered left in her mouth. "I, uh, legally changed my name back to Murdock after my adopted father…" She stopped there, not really wanting to expound on it. It was still so…wrong to say "adopted father." Doctor Manson had never let her call her anything familial. It was "Doctor Manson" or "Sir."

"Do you need help with that, Miss Page?" Iris attempted to change the subject, nodding to the dish. Without asking, Iris relieved the other woman of the warm glassware. Poor Karen was too stunned by the sudden tension to protest. Iris felt Matty's energy fully focused on her, and she tried her best to pretend she didn't notice as she set the dish in the middle of the table.

"Smell's delicious," Iris offered, hoping to give everyone an out, a way to forget the rapidly souring atmosphere.

Karen picked up from there. "Well, it's not much in the way of repayment," Karen removed the lid, satisfying wisps of steam floating into the air. A beautifully made lasagna greeted them all, the heavenly aroma Iris had commented on hitting them all full force.

Matt and Foggy found their seats. Iris took the cue, still actively pretending nothing had just happened.

"But, it is my grandmother's secret recipe," Karen picked up a spatula, carefully sectioning off the meal. "She made me promise only to serve it to my future husband." Iris decided right then and there she liked Karen and her ability to expertly quell tension, to fill pregnant silences. The line coaxed a chuckle from both Matt and Foggy. "You know it's, like, filled with virtue or something."

"I thought I detected a whiff of virtue in there," the temporary shifting of Matt's focus was the most blissful few seconds Iris had experienced in awhile.

"Not that I'm complaining," Foggy said as Karen dropped his portion onto his plate, "but shouldn't you be thanking the nut in the mask?"

"Nut in the mask?" Iris asked. Her conversation with Andy stirred afresh in her mind.

Karen paused for a moment, gaze shifting between both of her lawyers, before she finally spoke. "I…uh, well, I stumbled across some information I shouldn't have at work. It's what got me in trouble, why these two stepped in to help me. Last night I would have been killed if a man in a black mask hadn't stepped in."

"Shit," Iris whispered, the expletive her automatic reflex. Karen actually laughed a little at it.

"Yes. Well, I'm just glad he was there." She turned back to Foggy. "And, for the record, he's not a 'nut.' A little weird maybe, but…"

"We're just glad you're okay," Matt cut her off, offering a small half-smile.

"Well," Karen finally dished out his portion, "if it weren't for you too, I'd still be in that cell."

Matt shrugged. "Job's easy when your client's innocent. All you did was tell the truth."

"Yeah, but you listened."

What followed was another silence, but this was far more preferable. Filled with gratitude, relief. Matt took the plunge into lasagna, everyone else following suit.

"And don't get us wrong," Foggy said after his first bite. He wagged his knife to emphasize his next point, "We're still gonna bill you. As soon as we…figure out how to make bills."

Iris couldn't hold back her snort.

"About that," Karen set down her silverware. "I noticed you two could use a little help around here. And I do owe you. I could clean the place up a bit."

"Is this place messy?" Matt chuckled.

"Our firm is very prestigious and discerning, Miss Page." Foggy really liked to gesture with that knife. "Do you have any prior experience...hiding electrical chords up in ceiling tiles."

"No. But…uh…I'll work for free."

"Yeah. You're hired," Matt nodded, half-smile now a full grin.

"Just got hired!" Foggy agreed.

The rest of the meal was….actually pleasant. Iris even contributed to conversation, and though everyone was wary to her at first, Karen's presence did wonders to lighten the mood. Iris wished she'd met Nelson and Murdock's first client far sooner. Maybe brought her to Matt's apartment from the get-go….

Iris had accepted the fact that her childhood here was gone, but she was starting to see hope for a new life….

* * *

Iris's improved mood carried through her first afternoon and evening of teaching. She had mostly beginner clarinet students, all of whom showed enthusiasm for their instruments, and two promising intermediate oboists. Most of her first lessons involved assessing skills and learning styles and selecting rep. A whirlwind blew her work quickly by, landing her right at the end of her last lesson.

By the time Iris dismissed her final student, one of the oboists, the sun was long gone and the carpool children, now watched over by a younger woman Iris didn't recognize, were all lining up to head home. Her new pupils all offered their own versions of, "Goodbye, Ms. Murdock!" as she walked past the group, letting herself out into the night.

Another graveyard at Ethan's awaited her. Cab fare wasn't worth it, not when walk was short kept her head down and her pace steady, one hand in her purse with fingers curled around the tiny pocket-knife she carried. She figured she could handle the trek without incident. She was wrong.

Iris registered the commotion only a fraction of a second before she was grabbed from behind, a hand wrenching hers free from her purse. Something cold landed against her throat. A blade. "Drop the knife. Use it on me or scream, and I slit your throat. Keep still, and you live to never talk about this. Ever. Deal?" Horrible breath, voice laden with a Russian accent. Her knife clattered to the pavement. Iris let out a shuddering breath in response as she finally registered the scene she'd stumbled on.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Two vans parked right on the curb just a block from Ethan's, two blocks beyond her apartment building.

A group of men had wrestled someone to the ground, repeatedly kicking their victim's prone form. Groans, pleas for mercy, went up pathetically into the night. Then Iris saw someone break from the pack. A tall, sneering man who leered into the back window of the victim's vehicle. The foreboding stranger threw open the back door of the van, plucking a struggling little boy from inside.

"No," Iris gasped.

Her fists wanted to fly. All she could think about was how good it would feel to land a punch to this guys throat. But…there was the matter of the blade digging into her skin. Of the fact that she wasn't sure she could handle all these guys at once. Secret nights when she told Doctor Manson she was practicing, coached by a friend in a local gym, couldn't really prep her for all this.

The knife pressed itself a bit deeper into the skin. "I remember telling you to shut it."

"Daddy!" the kid wailed, struggling against his captor's grip.

The man on the ground registered it, his frantic please devolving into cries of, "Not my son!"

Iris wanted to throw up. A shuddering breath, the beginning of a pent up sob, wracked through her body.

"This is bigger than you, girl," her captor said into her ear. "Try to be the hero, say _anything,_ and we will find you." The hilt of his dagger found her head and the world went fuzzy for a terrifying moment. Her knees hit the pavement, unforgiving asphalt tearing through the tights she was wearing.

Shouts and the squealing of tires rattled on the edge of her perception. Then silence, the city snapping back into focus around her, and the soft moans of the poor man on the ground just a few feet away. Iris braced against vertigo, swiping up her pocket knife and hopping to her feet. The contents of her purse were spilled all over the street, but she spotted her wallet among the wreckage. _"This is bigger than you girl."_

"You're bleeding."

"Shit!" Iris swore, pure instinct kicking in. Instinct that hadn't been able to awake when she'd been ambushed. Her fist found a jaw in a satisfying uppercut.

A startled yelp, flailing limbs, and Iris found herself face to face with a black mask. No eye holes, just a cowl covering the entire upper half of the man's face. Her knuckles were screaming from their contact with his jaw, but he was staring dead-on, the only evidence of Iris's defense a tiny bit of trickling blood.

 _"_ _If he's as good as they say he is, let's hope he's actually the good Samaritan some people want to make him. A man like that with the wrong agenda…"_

 _Bluff,_ Iris told herself, _bluff like hell._

"My dad was a boxer," Iris warned, very proud of the bite in her voice. She sounded delightfully ballsy. Despite her heart straining against her ribs to free itself from her chest. "And my adopted father was an asshole and hated that my dad was a boxer. I learned to throw a punch just to spite the dick. And I _really_ wanted to spite him. I'm not afraid of you."

"You pack a decent punch," The Mask agreed. "But you're lying. You don't have to be afraid, though, not of me." He tensed, head whipping to the side as if he heard something in the distance. "I'm losing my window. I've got to go."

"Go where?"

His voice was stirring recognition. And she could tell he was trying to hide it from her, keeping his distance. Head ducked so he could hide his features from her.

"To get back the kid."

 _"_ _Let's hope he's the Good Samaritan they say he is…"_

"Who the hell are you?"

"The father. He'll need your help. You got a access to a med kit?"

He shuffled back another step from her. Iris shivered, hands balling into fists.

"Holy shit," she gasped, the fragmented puzzle slipping into place.

 _"_ _Iris, dad popped his stiches. I can…smell it," a nine-year-old Matty whispered to her, yawning loudly as she tucked him in. "You should go check on him."_

 _Iris shivered, still not used to this new development. Ever since that innocent, "Iris, can I tell you a secret?" the little things Matty would tell her, the things that wandered into his perception, had gotten progressively….stranger._

 _"_ _Go to sleep, Matty. I'll go check on him."_

She felt something warm just above her eyebrow. She raised her fingers, a wicked sting exploding under her touch. She drew her hand away specked in her own blood. Just like he'd said. She was bleeding.

"Holy shit," Iris said again, more to herself than anything, staring at his tense form. His balled fists and pulsing muscles. How had it gone from the occasional bouts of impressive perception to…. _this_ ….

"Do you have a med kit?" The Mask repeated.

"I do. I'll handle it. I was always better at suturing than you."

That hit him harder than her uppercut. He tensed, mouth opening and closing as words failed him. For the first time since coming back to Hell's kitchen, Iris wasn't at a loss for what to do or say around him.

"Save the kid," she told him. "You're the one talking about your window."

"I meant what I said. That was a good punch." And he took off.

* * *

 **Waaaay longer than I meant to make it, but hey.**

 **Anyway, until the next update!**

 **-Moonlit.**


	2. The Devil I Thought I Knew

**_Hahha_** **okay I am actually impressed with myself for getting the next chapter up in just a little over a week.**

 **Still, this story has been a really good writing exercise. Not gonna lie, I was really excited by the positive reception!**

 **To all the lovely people who reviewed the first chapter, you're amazing! To all those who followed/favorite: you are also amazing!**

 **Glad you're interested in Iris and her story!**

 **Not gonna lie, she's been fun to work with!**

* * *

 _The Devil I Thought I Knew_

The boy's father was sprawled out onto the pavement, clearly only half-conscious, groaning softly and curled in on himself. Iris approached him cautiously, kneeling beside him. His face was all blood and budding bruises, a disheartening swelling over his right eye, fattened and split. He had a gash on his left cheek that would no doubt require stitches. Tears—probably a combination of pain and panic—were making streaks down his face, making little clean tracks in the mess of scarlet.

"M-my son," he whispered when Iris came into view. Her heart withered at the brokenness in his voice. "They took..."

"The man in the mask," Iris knelt down by his side. "He's gone after them. He'll find your son."

The reminder, Iris uttering it aloud, made the poor man shudder again.

"You trust him?" he asked.

 _Trust?_ She wasn't so sure about that. It was hard to trust someone you barely knew. She'd thought she had a pretty good idea about Matty, her chipper and optimistic little brother, but time had changed a lot. Iris couldn't scrub the image of him, standing tense and ready. It wasn't any version of Matty she knew. The pissed Matty, the closed-off and guarded Matty, she could handle. But The Mask was something new entirely.

"He'll get him back," Iris said the only thing she knew for sure. Theirs was a stubborn breed. Heaven help and hell welcome anyone who got in the way of a determined Murdock. "Be careful of them Murdock boys," their grandma used to say, "they got the Devil in them."

Matty standing there, blood trickling down his mouth, dead on and unfazed by a fist to the jaw.

Iris picked herself up, slinging the man's arm around her neck. Admittedly, her petite build made things a bit of a challenge. "What are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't fight her off. She started towards the van.

"I'm going to clean you up. And then we're going to wait this out together."

"You don't…."

"The Mask asked me to," Iris cut him off. "Besides, I need to settle my head. And you're gonna need someone to stich you up. Think of it as mutually beneficial." They got to the car, the man fishing the keys out of his pockets. The vehicle made a little chirp as he unlocked it.

Hell of a getaway car.

Iris would have found it slightly comical, if she wasn't current supporting a bleeding man, hadn't almost gotten her throat slit by Russians. Hadn't just discovered her brother—her _blind baby brother_ —was a vigilante.

The father went for the driver's seat, but Iris moved to block him. "No," she said. "You're in no shape. I'll drive."

After they settled in to the van, Iris hastily called Andy, making up a food-poising story to cover herself. She almost really did throw up lying to her boss. Andy didn't deserve that, but the man didn't deserve to spend the night alone worrying about his son.

They swung by Iris's apartment first so she could grab her suture kit, and then the boy's father was giving her directions to his place. At first she was a little worried about being tailed, but the Russians really didn't seem to give a rat's-ass about the boy's father. _"This is bigger than you…"_

" _Shit,"_ Iris swore, her hand slamming onto the horn, her charge jumping at the sudden outburst. She was being unusually profane—her not-so-inner Catholic reeling with every cuss word she spoke or thought—but profanity seemed to fit her current situation.

"What?"

"Don't you find it a little funny the Russian's just…let us go? These guys don't like witnesses, people who give them away. Leaving us would be like leaving a trail…."

"A trail for The Mask to follow."

"He's walking right into a trap," Iris's throat closed around her words, hands tightening on the wheel.

 _Matty, don't get yourself killed._ Of course, trying to do the right thing regardless of the danger…that was a Murdock family trait too.

The phantom sound of a gunshot rattled in her skull.

Of course, the information wasn't settling well with the father either. If the man supposedly rescuing his son was about to head into a trap, then…

"Is The Mask someone important to you?" he finally asked, obviously trying too ward off that very thought.

Iris paused, not sure how to answer. She was pretty sure Matty wouldn't appreciate anything along the lines of, "Yeah. He's my brother. Matthew Murdock. Works at his own firm. Want his business and home address?" But even giving tiny chunks of that information could be flirting with disaster. Such was the slippery slope of knowing someone's secret identity.

"You could say that," she muttered.

"This is the place," the man nodded to a nice little townhome. Pleasant, homey. White-picket-fence-y. Iris parked the van, rushing around the driver's side before the father could get any ideas about walking into the house without help.

The inside was about as "American dream" as one could get. Almost straight out of an Ikea catalogue. The living room's carpet was plush and quiet beneath her feet. Throw pillows with cheesy inspirational quotes decorated the leather couch. Iris tossed aside one that told her to, "Dream big" and set the man down. She dragged the footrest in front of the nearby arm-chair closer to her, setting up a perch right in front of him.

"My sister sends me one of those for every Christmas and every birthday," he explained.

Iris said something indistinct and noncommittal, popping open her suture kit. "You got a wash rag? I should clean away some of this blood so I know what I'm working with."

"Bathroom's down the hall," he nodded. "You've done this before?"

She let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Not since I was a kid. But I did it all the time. It used to be some sort of competition, before my brother's acc—" she cut herself off, realizing she was about to say too much.

The father raised his eyebrow, a rather morbid expression with all the swelling and bruising. "What kind of childhood did you have?"

A beat. She stood, goose bumps peppering her arm. "A happy one."

* * *

"Did he win?" An eleven-year-old Iris looked over her shoulder when Matty came shuffling into the kitchen, face dejected. She was standing at the stove, two grilled cheese sandwiches simmering in the pan, satisfactorily golden brown. She gently lifted them with a spatula, setting them on plates.

"No," her brother flopped into his usual seat.

"Darn," Iris sighed. "Dad had him on the ropes, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but he let his gloves drop. Price tagged him and it was over from there," Matty leaned back in his chair as Iris carried over the plates.

"Grilled cheese again?" he narrowed his eyes at the sandwich. It was the only thing Iris knew how to make, so on nights when she didn't have lessons at Aldridge and she was in charge of dinner, it was typically the only thing that got served.

"Eat it or starve, Squirt," Iris went rummaging in the fridge, fishing out two Cokes. She popped open the cans and by the time she got to the table, Matty had already dug in. Despite his earlier complaints, he wolfed it down in record time, leaving nothing but scattered crumbs as evidence.

"You get your homework done?" Iris asked, clearing away the plates.

"I don't know, _Mom,_ did you?" he folded his arms.

"As a matter of fact, Counselor, I did," Iris turned on the sink. "But get your butt over here and help me and I won't rat you out when Dad gets home."

Matty took the offer, scrambling to her side. The breakfast dishes awaited them too, but they made quick work of it.

They were a perfectly efficient pair, the Murdock children. Their lives, at this moment, were untouched and uncomplicated. Just two kids living in a world that was small and happy and uneventful.

The lock turned in the front door, Matty the first to hear it. He dropped his half-washed dish in the soapy water, bounding to greet his father. Iris followed at his heels.

"Dad!"

"Hey, Iris, Matty. Hey!" he knelt down to receive them both, carefully embracing them. "Careful now, careful. Don't get blood on you."

Iris broke the embrace first, frowning at the bleeding cut above her father's eye. He offered her a small, reassuring smile before half-limping into the kitchen. He was moving slowly, breathing ragged. But, Iris had seen him in far worse shape before. Still, he was wearier than she'd even seen him, his every step clearly requiring the fullness of effort.

"You gotta keep your gloves up," Matty declared sagely.

"Shoulda had you two in my corner."

Matty frowned, narrowing his eyes at his dad's injuries. "Does it hurt?"

"Don't tickle," Jack shook his head. "One of you get the kit."

"It's my turn!" Matty declared, already rushing to the drawer where the kept they first-aid kit.

Jack found his spot at their table, wincing as he muscles pulled and strained against the newly formed bruises. He closed his eyes, a silent sigh rippling through his body. His left hand found his right shoulder, gently massaging the muscle. Iris noticed a general….off-ness to him. She'd seen her dad lose plenty of times, yet he'd never been this….resigned about it.

"Daddy," Iris said quietly.

"Hmm?" he lifted his head, eyes slowly fluttering open.

"Pan's still warm," she said. "Want me to make you a grilled cheese?"

"Sure, Sweetie," he offered her a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. While Iris got to work on the sandwich, Matty started on the cut.

"You shoulda had him," the younger Murdock declared, carefully dabbing the wound with an alcohol-drenched swab. "Price is a bum."

"Hey," Jack scolded. "Anyone who's got the guts to step in that ring deserves respect. Don't you forget that."

"Even Price?"

"Even Price."

Iris chanced a moment away from the pan, turning around to watch her brother work. "Sorry you lost, Dad," she muttered quietly.

"Just wasn't my night," Jack shrugged. "Hey, hey. Easy with the cotton swabs there, Doc." He tried to gently brush Matty's hand away.

"Gotta get in there," Matty said. "Don't want it to get infected."

"Stiches?" Jack guessed.

"Oh yeah."

"Iris, get the scotch."

Obediently, the elder Murdock child knelt down, pulling the bottle out from under the sink and bringing it over to the table, sliding it towards her dad. He pushed it in Matty's direction. "No. It's for him."

Matty grinned. "Really?"

"You think I want your hands shaking like last time? This is my face we're talking about."

"My hands don't shake when I suture," Iris said.

"Yeah they do!" Matty shot back.

"Alright, alright," Jack grinned at his children. "I've been part of one brutal fight tonight. Don't need another on my hands. Just a little sip, Matty. And, Iris, make sure you don't burn down the apartment, Sweetheart."

"Oops!" she squeaked, trotting back to the stove.

"You two watch the fight?" Jack asked, trying to distract himself as Matty began stitching.

"Matty kept me updated while I made dinner," Iris nodded.

"You're supposed to be doing your homework."

"Got it done first," Iris plated the grilled cheese, bringing it over to the table. She sat down in her place, watching as Matty finished up.

"Both of you? All of it?"

Matty's gaze shifted to Iris, which told their father everything he needed to know.

"I want you to finish up before you go to bed," Jack spoke through gritted teeth, hands balled into fists as he tried not to cry out. Whenever she wasn't the one suturing, it was always a little painful for Iris to watch the stiches yank at her dad's skin.

"I'll do it tomorrow," Matty tried for negotiation.

"Tonight."

"Before school?"

"Tonight."

"Alright."

Silence. Iris watched her father's lower lip quiver, his whole body shaking as the younger sibling started on the next stitch.

"Dad?" Matty asked, clipping off the excess. "We gonna have enough for Mr. Morris this month?"

Jack paused, tossing an unreadable look between his children, before presenting a stuffed envelope. "He will get his rent on time."

Iris snatched it up, peering inside, fingers tracing over the large wad. "You got all this for losing?" A sour feeling settled into her stomach, something about the situation not quite sitting with her.

Jack's already unstable smile faded, avoiding her gaze, "Sometimes, even when you get knocked down…you can still win."

"It ain't about how you hit the matt," Matty agreed.

"It's how you get up," the three Murdocks finished together.

"Alright," Jack took the envelope back up. "Go hit the books."

Matty's shoulders slumped. "Can I take the bottle?"

"No," Jack half-laughed, though he wasn't really committed to it. The weariness still lingered in his eyes. "Just…go on."

Matty shuffled towards his room, but Iris lingered for a moment, blinking slowly at her father. "Daddy, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he attempted to fix his smile, to paste it back on, but the effort fell flat. "Actually, Sweetheart, I've been meaning to talk to you about that special lesson you wanted to take at Aldridge."

Iris squirmed around a little, the sting of disappointment still not fully subsided. "I understand, Daddy. Things are tight right now. Besides, if I can't make it somebody else gets my spot. Maybe Angela won't be so pissed at me if she gets to take the lesson with Dr. Manson. She was next in line after me."

Jack tapped his finger on the bottle of scotch. "I've found a way to cover it."

Iris's breath hitched. "What?"

"You're going to get your private lesson with Dr. Manson."

"Daddy!" she squealed, flying out of her chair and throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank you. Thank you so, so…" she paused, eyes wandering to the envelope on the table. Her excitement subsided as quickly as it came.

"How did you get so much for losing?" she whispered.

Again, he refused to look at her. "Go make sure Matty's doing his homework."

"Daddy…"

He sighed, tucking the envelope back into his jacket. "Go check on your brother, Iris."

He didn't even look at her as she disappeared back to her bedroom.

* * *

A few stiches and two Advil later, the father's living room had settled into silence. The stranger watched her as she cleaned up her mess from suturing, frown deep- set on his face. "I'm in good hands," he muttered, so quietly she almost missed it at first. "Barely felt a thing."

Iris raised an eyebrow, picking up the bloodied washrag she'd used to clean the his face. "You don't have to lie. I know getting stiches hurts like hell without being on anything."

"So, on the subject of the fact that you know how to do this…."

"I'm gonna toss this rag in your machine," Iris cuts him off. It's sort of dumb to just throw a damp washrag in without another load, and it's not her responsibility, but she'd take any out she can get. Even appealing to her _extremely_ latent domestic side. The conversation was leading down a slippery slope than ended with Matt's identity right out in the open.

"Laundry's just off the kitchen," the man sighed, slapping his hands on his thighs. A little gesture to ground himself in reality, she guessed. She felt a little tang of guilt bubble at the back of her throat. He was searching, trying to grapple onto any distraction he could get. And she was dancing around his attempts for comfort.

The washing machine vibrated under her fingers when she slammed it shut. The hiss of water, and she was leaning against it for support. All she could really think about was Matty out there somewhere….wandering right into a trap. She doubted he'd call her for updates. She wasn't going to hear anything until he stumbled here...she _hoped_ he'd stumble here. She hoped he wasn't bleeding out in warehouse somewhere. Hoped is body wasn't floating in the Hudson. Hope was all she had to go on. And faith.

She found herself whispering prayers to every patron saint she thought might fit this messed up, totally unreal situation. _St. Iris Murdock of New York,_ she thought sarcastically, _patron saint of vigilante brothers who may be dead in a ditch._

"I don't know if you drink, but…" the man appeared in the doorway, his voice drawing Iris out of her thoughts. She took the glass without hesitation. The wine tasted like it more than likely came out of a box, but that was decidedly not the worst thing she'd experienced that night, so she sipped gratefully.

"Patrick," the man finally said.

Iris paused. "What?"

"Patrick Kent. My name. If we're going to keep this weird vigil together, I figured names would be helpful."

She debated for an hour-long second over the risks of telling him her name. Iris Murdock led to Matt Murdock….and Matt Murdock apparently had a few things he'd rather people not know. If Matt Murdock survived the night.

She tossed back another sip, trying to block out the image of tomorrow's news cast. _"Blind Masked Man Fished out of Dumpster."_

The drink rolled down her throat all jagged and fiery.

"Look," Patrick swirled his drink around in his glass. "I don't really know….whatever it is you and the Mask got going on. But, you're clearly shaken up. And, frankly, I'm….not doing so hot myself. You said you wanted this whole thing to be mutually beneficial, right? So…can we just….stop dancing around each other?"

She shivered, images of Matty in a hospital bed—eyes bandaged, thrashing and groaning and shivering—flickering around in her mind. Heart breaking as she cleaved to her dad's side, unable to do anything for him. Only able to wait for the terror to fade, for the world to find some semblance of normal for her baby brother.

Apparently, The Mask was the normal he'd found.

"Iris," she said. "My name is Iris."

* * *

A few weeks after the fight with Price, and a few more shocking losses on the part of Jack Murdock, Iris was ready to receive her promised private lesson with Dr. Manson, principal oboist with the New York Philharmonic. When Mr. Aldridge had announced the fact that Dr. Manson had reached out to the conservatory wanting to teach private lessons to a select few, it had been Iris's dream. She'd picked up the oboe about a year prior, Mr. Aldridge kind enough to find one for her to borrow.

Iris was asked to dress up for the occasion, and Mr. Aldridge himself introduced her to the man of the hour. Dr. Manson was austere, salt-and-pepper haired and smelling of expensive cologne. He wore a hand-tailored suit for the lesson, making the dress Iris borrowed from her upstairs neighbor seem like a trash bag. Still, she kept her focus during the whole half hour. He was stern, stopping her every few measures to correct. Iris took each critique in stride, attacking each playing with a trademark Murdock tenacity. When the lesson was over, she stood, cleaving to her oboe like a life-line as the man's gaze raked over her.

"Promising," was all he said.

She found it odd her father wasn't there to greet her after. He'd promised to take her and Matty to Ethan's after to celebrate. Éclairs and hot chocolate, their favorite way to ring in special occasions. Figuring he was just running behind—sometimes his training sessions ran behind and he was late picking up Matty from school—she went to the recital hall to wait. The other carpool kids swarmed around her asking her question after question, but her mind still buzzing from the half hour. It had passed in a blur.

"Iris," she turned her head when Mr. Ramirez—who taught the violin and Iris only knew by name—came up to her, and Iris's stomach turned to stone. His eyes were wild, the rest of his face twisted into some strange unreadable expression.

"I'm supposed to drive you to Metro-General."

"Metro…" Iris trailed off.

That was a hospital….why….

The world narrowed around her, a ringing in her ears. Too many scenarios crowding around in her mind, fighting for her attention. A ragged, panicked squeak pushed it's way out of her throat.

"It's your brother," Mr. Ramirez knelt down to her level. "He was in an accident." Another retched sound. The teacher frowned, catching Iris's horrified look. "He's alive. He's alive. Don't worry, he's alive."

The drive was awkward, tense. Iris's stomach was churning the entire time, as she sat in silence, praying for Matty. And odd, disjointed memory of being with her grandmother and father at mass. Grandma Murdock shushing her and Matty when they were whispering to each other during prayers.

As soon as they reached their destination, Mr. Ramirez handed her off to a nurse, who escorted the panicking eleven-year-old through the pandemonium of Metro-General. Her father rushed to intercept her, enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug. "Iris, Sweetheart."

She guessed the hug was supposed to comfort her, but his panic seeped right into her. She wondered maybe if he were just trying to hold onto her tight. He'd come close to losing one child, it would make sense if he tried to cleave to her for dear life. To keep her safe.

"Matty," Iris said thinly. Tears, which she'd really been working to keep back, finally burst forth. She sobbed loudly into her father's shoulder.

"He's gonna be okay," her dad assured. "He pushed someone out of the way of an on-coming truck. There were chemicals, they…..his eyes." He cried too, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into the room.

Matty was unconscious, all wires and sweaty, clammy skin. Iris shrank into her father when she saw the bandages around her brother's eyes. Jack set her down and she rushed right up to Matty's side, squeezing her brother's hand.

"Matty, I'm gonna be right here. Every step of the way. I'm here for you," she fervently whispered.

They were in the hospital for hours before Matty woke up. A well-meaning neighbor had brought a change of clothes for Iris. She was in her pajamas and comfortably curled up in an arm chair, half-asleep, before her brother's screams fill the room.

"I can't see!" the terror-filled proclamation drew Jack out of his stupor, sending him flying to his son's bedside. He reached out for a thrashing Matty.

"Matty, Matty, it's me. It's Dad, I'm right here."

Iris's heart contracted jaggedly. Her dad's words of comfort seemed to fall on deaf ears, Matty kicking and screaming and struggling futilely against the hospital-issue blankets.

"I-I-I can't see," Matty whimpered.

"You were in an accident. Do you remember?" Iris could tell her father was trying not to lose it. She got up off the chair, quietly shuffling to join him at her brother's side. "You're in the hospital, but we're right here with you. Me and Iris."

"Everything's so loud," Matty panted. "Everything…"

"I'm here," their dad repeated. "It's Daddy. Here." Jack grabbed Matty's hands, placing them right onto strong outlines of Jack's cheekbones. "Feel my face. Feel my face."

For a brief second, Matty could only hyperventilate. But then recognition finally dawned on him, and he took a shuddering breath, hands hungrily searching the rest of Jack's features. "Dad," Matty blubbered.

Now that he wasn't thrashing around, Iris figured it would be safe to crawl in beside her brother. To do her part. It was a typical thing for them to do, to curl into each other for comfort. Whenever he had nightmares, she'd come to his room. Whenever she was scared by a thunderstorm, he'd come to hers and settle under her comforter. Making her laugh with silly stories. Their dad's profession—the late night's it required—meant the Murdock siblings had learned to turn to each other for comfort. Nights spent side-by-side braving their fears as one.

Matty was, at first, startled by her presence at his side as she snuggled up next to him, but the familiarity of the situation calmed him. "Iris," he choked, voice shuddering. His breathing was too quick, inefficient, but he managed to suck in a few decent breaths, grounded by the presence of his family.

"Right here, Matty," she said.

"Me and Iris," her dad agreed. "Right here."

"I…" Matty sobbed raggedly. "I can't see."

"It's alright," Jack assured, obviously at a loss for what to do.

"Dad, I can't see…"

"I know, Matty. I know," Jack spared a glance at Iris, the helplessness shattering her heart. Iris's dad had always been so sure, so strong. This…this was….

"It's alright. It's alright," Jack kept muttering. "I'm here. We're here. It's alright…We're here.."

It wasn't too long before a nurse came in, re-administering meds. Poking, prodding. Matty, to his credit, took the whole thing with only minimal complaining, but Iris had to restrain herself. All she wanted to do was make everything better. To take away Matty's fears and pain. But all she could do was hold him by her side, let him doze off in her arms as the new dosage of meds worked through his system.

When Matty was out, Jack finally relaxed, stumbling back to his chair. Iris stayed where she was, determined to make the first sensation her brother found when he woke up again the familiarity of her presence. Her dad sat hunched over, head in hands. She didn't think he was aware of her. Aware of anything except those heartbreaking moments of Matty's sheer terror.

Iris let her father sit in silence, her own exhaustion making her eyelids heavy. Matty's calm breathing was almost hypnotic. And the adrenaline rush of his startling awakening, yanked into a new terrifyingly blank state of consciousness, had torn through her like lightning, left her shaking and weary. She fell asleep at her brother's side, vaguely aware of her father's tears as she drifted off.

* * *

The silence was no less heavy then before. The two near-strangers had unsuccessfully tried the small talk thing. Unfortunately, it was a little hard when Iris was still being tight-lipped about almost anything. One would be surprised how quickly basic conversation fails when one half of the dialogue was barely even comfortable saying her name.

Iris was now leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Patrick rummaged through his cupboards. She had no idea what he was trying to accomplish. He probably didn't either. She stared into her half-finished second glass of wine, trying to find words to say. It was about as good of a distraction as aimlessly searching through kitchen cabinets.

Iris stared at the framed pictures, the little pastoral scenes surrounding profound quotes. "Maybe I should get your decorator to do my place," she said. "Mine has a distinct lack of feel-good motivation."

Patrick managed a half-laugh as he slammed the last cupboard. "This is all my sister," he shook his head. "She and my brother-in-law own the property. They're renting it out to me while I try to get back on…" he cut himself off, casting a side-long glance at her. "Never mind."

He leaned against the counter, focusing on the drawing's on the refrigerator. Iris followed his gaze. They were all obviously done by a child's hand. Mostly of a boy and a father. No evidence of a mother at all.

"What's your son's name?" Iris asked.

"Ian."

"Hmm."

He watched her as she examined the drawings for a moment before deciding he dislike the silence, "More wine?"

Iris looked at her half-downed glass. It wasn't helping for forgetting Matty. In fact, it may have been making matter's worse. Of course, the carefully guarded way she was handling her interactions with Patrick probably was doing more to drive her inward, to revel in memories and possibilities. To let her imagination do its worst. "No thank you," she finally said.

"You know what," Patrick put down his own glass. His was empty. "Here's how we're gonna do this. I get it. Tied to a vigilante. Can't really tell me much. Can't get too close to the Mask's identity. But…innocent stuff, you know? Random, unusual facts."

Iris snorted, but anything had to be better than just…waiting. Staring. Taking up space.

"I can read Braille," she shrugged. In retrospect, that may not have been a good first fact. Follow up questions could lead to Matty. Thankfully, the "why/how did you learn" is not what followed.

"Really?"

"Learned when I was a kid. I'm kind of rusty, but…"

Patrick stared at the oven clock, then quickly snapped his gaze back to her. "Can you…I don't know…teach me a little about it?"

Iris resisted the urge to check the time as well. It was not going to do her any good. "Yeah. Okay."

* * *

After the accident, the Murdock family had rallied together, picking up the pieces and trying to assemble them into a new way of life. Matty, for his part, took it as best he could. He was hurting, struggling with the idea of a sightless life, and Iris often woke up to the sound of her brother's tears. Or her father's. Or even her own.

But, Murdock's usually could get back up after any hit. And so they plugged away.

"You're getting faster," Matty said, once Iris flipped the Braille book closed. When Matty began learning, Iris was determined to study alongside him, preserving the solidarity that the two siblings had always shared. In the two month's since Matty's hospitalization, she practiced when she could, especially by reading to him before bed. It wasn't something they did before, but it had become a comfortable new tradition.

"Not as fast as you, Squirt," Iris ruffled his hair.

"I have necessity on my side," he said, smile fading.

Iris sighed, looking at the book on her hands. "I know, Matty," was all she could say.

"Iris…" he started, and the elder sibling instantly perked up. He had _that tone…_

The one that meant he was about to tell her something….well, the only word she could describe it as was _uncanny._

The first time was just a week after the accident. She was getting ready to leave his room when Matty had gotten very quiet and asked his sister, "Iris, can I tell you a secret?"

"What's up, Matty?" she'd asked, not really sure where the conversation was about to go.

He'd sighed, twisting the blankets in his hands. "Since….you know….I've been able to hear things. Things far away. Taste things, without them being in my mouth. Smell stuff that I shouldn't be able to."

Iris's reaction had been the expected one. She paused where she was, shivers working their way up and down her spine. "Matty…."

"I…it sort of just…wanders in and out. But if I really concentrate, I can hear whole conversations, even in our neighbors' apartments."

Since that night, he'd told her little things. Stuff he happened to catch. And, whenever he was about to tell her something, it was always _that tone_ that let her know she was about to be given a glimpse into Matty's new, terrifying version of reality.

Jack, and every trauma recovery therapist, all equated Matt's increased nightmares and sudden debilitating headaches to the shock of it all, but if she was experiencing all the things Matty told her in secret…yeah, her head would probably pound incessantly as well.

She set the book aside. "What'd you hear, Matty?"

"Today at Fogwell's, when you were at Aldridge…two men pulled Dad aside. They got him a match with Creel."

"Creel?" Iris gasped. "That's huge…"

Matty shook his head. "They say they'll make more money if he throws the fight. They want him to go down in the fifth…"

"He took the offer, didn't he?"

Matty sighed. "Yeah. Yeah he did." He paused, shuddering a little. "Has…has he done this before?"

"Since Price, I think. He's never told me, but I always suspected."

"Why? Why would he do this? It's wrong…it's…"

"It's what he has to do to take care of us. Cover rent. Food. Matty, he's doing what he can."

"I always thought…you, know…that our dad was untouchable. That no matter how bad the city seemed…"

"Our dad's a good man, Matty. This doesn't change that."

Did she hate that this was how things had to be? Of course. But she also knew her dad had to do what he could. He was still her hero, regardless. She could be proud of him, even like this.

Matty said nothing, just slid off his tinted glasses and set them on his nightstand. Iris got off Matty's bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "Get some sleep, Squirt."

* * *

"Favorite flower?"

"Irises."

"Yeah. Okay yeah. That's kind of a given, isn't it?"

Iris had lost track of the hours, and that wasn't exactly a bad thing.

After teaching Patrick a few basic facts about Braille, they'd found themselves on the living room couch, playing a bizarre game of "what's your favorite" while she cuddled the "dream big" pillow to her chest. The third glass of wine she initially declined was now filled in her hands. All the questions were, as promised, delightfully shallow. Stupid, trivial little things. Enough to pass the hours. The eternal hours.

"Favorite Avenger?" Patrick asked.

"Captain America."

"Seriously?"

"Why not?"

"Spangle-y outfit, Frisbee throwing guy?"

"Correction. Classically handsome, moral compass set with a ridiculously true north. Not to mention, my dad had a few of his comic books. Used to love to read them as a kid. Read them to me when I was little. So. Yeah. Captain A-Frickin-'Merica."

And then there was Iris's cell-phone, drifting from her purse. Her heart stalled for a half-second, wondering— _hoping, really—_ if Matt was calling her for an update. She set down her wine on the coffee table, trying not to appear too eager as she headed toward the source of her sound.

She frowned at the caller ID, the unknown number, stomach clenching. Her first thought was the worst one. Ransom call? The "we have your brother" or, worse still, "we killed your brother…."

Iris was aware of Patrick's stare, his thoughts obviously taking him to similar places. She braved the call, offering a shaky hello into the receiver.

" _Iris,"_ the voice on the other line was slurred, bubbly. At first Iris was relieved, and once that emotion ran its course, confusion settled in. _"Foggy and I are….we're going to the fish market."_

"Karen?" Iris tried to let the relief be too obvious in her voice. Though, Iris doubted Karen would notice. "How did you….how did you get my number?"

" _We drank the eel, Sister-We-Don't Discuss. Come out with us,"_ Foggy's voice proudly declared. There was a scuffling, the two battling for control of the phone. Karen evidently won.

" _You wanna come out with us? We're not thinking!"_

"I gathered as much," Iris sighed. Great. First vigilante brothers, now drunk lawyers and legal assistants—both of whom barely knew her. "Seriously, though, I'm still on the how you got this number thing…."

" _Took it from Matt's phone,"_ Foggy again. _"Gotta look after him. Don't really trust you yet."_

"And yet you're inviting me…"

" _To the fish market,"_ Foggy cut her off. _"Karen's idea. The inviting you, not the fish market. Fish market was me. I am the king of good ideas. Karen is the queen of 'meh' ideas. She says I should get to know you."_

"Foggy, I'm at…" she almost said work, but she didn't trust Karen and Foggy not to show up at Ethan's. So she went with the same alibi she fed Andy. "I'm at home. Food poising. It's bad."

" _Can't come, Karen,"_ Foggy said. _"Puking her guts out."_

There was indistinct chatter, laughter. _"Gonna call Matt then. Have fun ralphing the night away!"_

"Foggy, wait!" Iris said. If Foggy went looking for Matt, what would he find? Could Iris really let that happen? But the line went dead.

"Who was…?" Patrick asked, though he abandoned the question half-way though, obviously learning by now Iris wasn't too keen on answering personal questions. He sighed, trying a new angle. "Forget it."

There was dead space, Iris scrambling to quickly fill it. "Favorite sport?"

"Boxing."

She almost choked on her wine, just barely saving herself from a spit take. Of course, _of course,_ that would be the answer. She was starting to regret the third glass. She wasn't a huge drinker—she was known to partake sparingly on special occasions, pair nicer dinners with a decent red—but her insides were starting to feel warm, fuzzy. Something hot was stinging at her eyeballs.

"Something I said?" Patrick asked.

"Nope," Iris shook her head fervently.

"Good, for a minute, I thought you were about to tell me you didn't like boxing. That would put a damper on our current relationship." He shrugged. "Whatever that is. But, _anyway,_ I grew up here. Used to follow all of the local legends."

The Russians—out of all the people in the city—had to pick the guy who was a fan of boxers. Worse still, _local_ boxers….

"Iris, are you….crying?"

"No. Everything's fine." She tossed back another sip of her drink, her world all cheap fermented grapes, sour and cutting like the memories that it kept stirring up.

* * *

"There is a price to be paid for division and isolation," little Matty's hands were flying across the page, a proud smile on this face. "Democracy cannot flourish hate. Justice cannot take route amid rage. We must dissent from the indifference. We must descent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear."

Iris handed her father a sopping, freshly-washed plate, the last dish of the night. "Now don't ask me to read all that yet," she said as Jack began to dry.

"I'm not sure if you're actually reading that or if you're making it up," Jack whistled. "I'm not sure which is more impressive."

"It's Thurgood Marshall," Matty shrugged.

"Starting Centerfielder for the Mets, right?" Jack laughed, going to the freezer and pulling out a quart of ice cream. Iris followed him to the table with three spoons in hand.

"You know who Thurgood Marshall is," Matty snorted. Iris placed a spoon in her brother's hand.

"School wasn't my strong suit." Jack grabbed the package he'd leaned up against the kitchen wall, setting it before his children.

"That the stuff you ordered, Dad?" Iris was the first to tackle the treat, licking every drop of ice cream from her spoon.

"Came today," he agreed. "Had to do a lot of convincing to get Matty to let me wait until you got home."

Matty held out his spoon, silently asking for guidance. Iris slid the quart closer to him. "So let's get it out!" the youngest Murdock declared around a mouthful of mint chocolate-chip.

"Sure, sure," Jack began untying the strings that enveloped the brown paper, whistling when he saw what was hidden inside.

"How's it look?" Matty let his spoon clatter to the table, forgotten. Iris sat on her knees, craning to see.

"It's….red. It's very red."

Red indeed. A proud, silky scarlet robe, "Battlin' Jack Murdock" etched onto the back in beautiful gold lettering.

"You know when Mrs. Henderson upstairs gives us those cherry popsicles? We used to stick out our tongues at each other, because they turned them red. It's like that," Iris offered, trying to be helpful. She slumped back into her chair, taking another bite of ice-cream.

Matty, bless him, chuckled at the comparison. "Can I, Dad?"

Jack hesitated, a sympathetic look crossing his features for just a second, before he slid the robe across the table for Matty to feel. The nine-year-old moved his fingers carefully across the gold lettering. "Good thing about red. Can't see how much you're bleeding."

"Whose says I'm even gonna get hit?" Jack punctuated this point by stealing a bite of ice-cream.

"We're Murdocks," Matty slowly brought his hands to his lap. "We get hit a lot."

Jack sucked in a sharp breath at that, his gaze flickering to the ground. "Yeah…I guess we do." Iris reached across the table for his father's hand. He gently shied away from her touch.

"But we get back up. Right, Dad?" Matty added. Jack bulked at that. Iris looked at the quart of ice-cream, suddenly not in the mood for the treat. "We always get up."

"We do," Jack agreed, though his heart wasn't in it. He glanced side-long at Iris, then at Matty.

"Iris, you practice tonight?" he sighed.

"I had my lesson today…"

"Go get your oboe. You got that recital coming up, right?"

"Yeah. I do," Iris muttered, defeated.

"And, Matty, bath time. Iris will come put you to bed when you're done."

"You're gonna come say goodnight, right?" Matty hopped off his chair, coming to Iris's side.

"Always," Jack agreed. "Night, Kids."

"Night," they chorused.

Iris lingered in the doorway, silently watching her father. He was staring blankly at the package. "Daddy," she said, quietly. He startled.

"Hey, Sweetheart. What's up?"

"You take good care of us, Matty and Me," she muttered. "I love you."

He let out a shuddering breath. "I love you too, Iris."

She could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes before she went back to her bedroom.

* * *

They'd been silent for a good five minutes, five very long minutes. Patrick hadn't dared to ask what had gotten such a tense reaction out of her when the subject of boxing was brought up. He hadn't bothered to come up with another question either. Her wine was gone, and she was now most definitely buzzed. Stupid, sloppy wet tears were pouring down her face. Patrick was watching her, silent and looking on the verge of crying himself.

"The Mask," Patrick murmured. "He's….all you have left, right?"

Iris snapped her head up, terrified at the truth he'd just uttered.

"Ian's all I got too. Him and my sister. Ian's mother…" he shook his head, darkness overshadowing his face.

"My dad was a boxer," Iris whispered. She instantly felt like she'd said too much, especially if this guy followed the locals. But she'd committed. And there it was, lingering between them. "I lost him when I was young."

"How did…."

"He was supposed to go down in the fifth. It would have been so much simpler if he went down in the fifth."

"When I got older, they started releasing a lot about corruption scandals like that…"

"He did what he had to," Iris cut him off. "What he could with what he had. But, he just wanted us to witness people cheering for him. To be proud of our name. To be proud of _him._ But…we already were. Hell, the man was my _hero._ I think he knew that, too. Felt like he needed to earn it. But he didn't have to earn a thing. I loved him for trying."

Is that why Matty did what he did? Their father had failed trying to do the right thing. Was Matty taking up the gauntlet to make sure it wasn't a sacrifice made in vain?

"I hope one day, when Ian talks about me, he'll be talking the way you are about your dad."

"I hope Ian never has to talk about what it's like to lose you. At least not until he's got near-grown kids and you lived a full life," Iris shuddered. "When The Mask brings Ian back, hold him tight. So tight. And when he hugs you back, realize how much he loves you. And please don't think you have anything to prove to him. Just….being there is enough."

* * *

Matty and Iris watched their father's match with Creel in their living room, the whole apartment swelling with their frenzied excitement. Iris hadn't bothered with dinner, somber at the idea of watching her dad throw another fight. But when the fifth came and went and Battlin' Jack was still on fire, the Murdock children instantly went from resigned to electrified. They still weren't hungry, but their appetite was a victim of sheer excitement now.

" _Murdock lands another! And another!"_ the announcer's voice crackled from their old TV. Matty was bouncing at the edge of the old recliner, face lit up like Time Square on New Year's.

"Get him, Dad! Get him!" he declared. Iris smiled, her own heart banging at her ribs.

" _Creel is rocked! Murdock won't let him out of the corner. The younger creel seems stunned by the ferocious display by the more seasoned Murdock."_ A beat. _"And it's over. Creel goes down. Battlin' Jack Murdock has defeated Crusher Creel!"_

"Yes!" Matty hopped to his feet. "Yeah, Dad! Yeah!"

"Matty, the neighbors!" Iris warned, but he didn't register.

"Iris! Dad beat Creel! Dad beat Creel!"

"I know. I watched the same fight, Squirt," the laughed, roping him to her side. "You hungry? Dad left money for takeout. I'll get us something special, too."

They ordered a large pizza from their favorite local joint—pepperoni and sausage, just like always—and two fresh baked brownies to celebrate. On paper plates, so they wouldn't have dishes to worry about after. While they ate, Matty recounted the fight, crawling out of his skin in anticipation of their dad's return.

"I'm going in to practice," Iris said when she finished off her dessert. "I'm assuming you're waiting up for Dad?"

Matty nodded vigorously and Iris laughed, ruffling his hair, before heading into her room. As she ran through her recital piece, she tried to remember Dr. Manson's notes. She'd taken almost everything he said to heart, wanting to preserve the lesson as much as possible. He'd proved an effective teacher, and it was an opportunity she thought she could only pray for again.

She was running through her hardest section when the sound of a distant gunshot roared through her apartment. It took all the breath out of her, and she carelessly tossed the instrument onto the bed. "Matty!" she screamed, tripping into the kitchen.

His spot at the table was empty, the only evidence his glasses, sitting alone and forgotten. "Matty?"

She headed for his room, checking by his bedside where he kept his cane, and found it gone. Heart beating in her throat, she tore down the flights of stairs, screaming her brother's name as she hurried along the side-walk. The world skittered to a screeching halt when she saw cops gathered in an alleyway just a few buildings over from their apartment.

She heard crying. Matty's crying. Iris sprinted up to the officer, seeing just beyond them her brother on his knees, sobbing over….

"You can't go…" one of the cops said to her.

"M-m-my brother," she skirted around them.

Matty was feeling their father's face. A bloodied version of their father's face. "Daddy," he sobbed. Iris almost threw up, tripping onto her knees. _"Daddy!"_

"Matty," Iris scooted closer to him, hand on his shoulder. He roughly shrugged her off, cleaving to their dad's belly-up form.

"Matty, Matty, _shhh,_ " Iris sobbed, prying him away. She held him in an iron-tight hug. He fought her— _really_ fought her, with every ounce of Murdock stubbornness—but then he slumped into her, wailing, defeated. Traumatized. Traumatized for the second time in his short life.

"Iris. D-d-daddy, he…"

"I know," Iris shivered, forcing herself to look away. To bury her face into Matty's shoulder and stay there. To let her tears fall onto his shirt, to force herself not to drink in the scene of her shattered life. She was, just for this one selfish moment, jealous of her brother's blindness. "Matty, I know."

* * *

Iris hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until the clattering came from the kitchen. She was face down in the stupid "dream big" pillow. Patrick had found his way over to the recliner at one point, dozed off at an awkward angle. He snorted awake too, confirming that Iris hadn't imagined the crashing sounds from the kitchen.

She scrambled to her feet, Patrick right at her heels. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him not to follow her lead and rush headlong into potential danger. But then a single, tiny little voice silenced everything she was thinking about saying.

"Daddy!"

Ian's form flew right past Iris, launching into his father's waiting arms. "Hey, kiddo," Patrick let out a sob of relief, face scrunched with freely-flowing tears. "Hey."

"You waited with him," Iris's heart skipped when she heard Matty's voice in her ear. He was slumped, hunched. Holding his side and panting. Pain etched into every visible part of his face.

"I knew this is where you'd come," she said. "I wasn't going to be alone, wondering if you were going to turn up dead."

She wanted to hug him, to pull him right into her embrace and never let him go. She'd fought so hard to come back here, to get him back. And she'd come so close to losing him...

"You smell like a vineyard," he muttered.

"Don't be so dramatic," she said. "It was three glasses."

"Walk a block down the street," he said. "I'll tail you from above, make sure you're not followed. If I don't show up to tell you otherwise, take a cab to my apartment."

All Iris could do was numbly nod as slipped out of the back door.

* * *

When Iris got to Matt's building, she texted him to let him know she was there. He was downstairs—dressed in sweats, a hoodie, and his tinted glasses and looking so different from the menacing figure in black she'd seen earlier that night—in almost an instant. Like he'd heard the cab riding up. Probably had.

Before she could protest, Matt shoved a handful of cash into the cabbie's hand, muttering some sort of thank-you, and then pulls open the back door. Exhaustion and alcohol finally caught up with her. He offered her an arm and she took it, leaning on him as he led her up the rickety stairs.

Matty's apartment was strange at night, a florescent light bathing the whole thing in a neon glow. Some bill-board leaking its advertisement right through Matty's windows. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"Matty, I can go back to my apartment, you don't have to…."

"It was a trap," Matty's voice shook a little. "I walked right into a trap. Ended up in a dumpster. Almost died. A woman, a nurse, she found me. Stitched me up. I…slept. Dreamt a lot. About….I dreamt about Dad, Iris."

"Shit, Matty," Iris choked on a sob.

"Let me, uh…make up the bed for you," he said, skirting around her. She didn't protest.

She fell asleep that night on silk sheets, buried in very soft, very _unscented_ bedding. If she listened hard enough, she could hear Matty breathing out in the living room. She knew he was listening for her as well. She could pretend they were kids again, under her covers and braving a thunderstorm.

"Goodnight, Squirt," she muttered into the pillow. She knew he heard her.

When she finally slept, she dream of them as kids, dozed off on the couch, waiting for their father to get home.

* * *

 **Okay, "Cut Man" as an episode destroys me every time I see it, so needless to say this was...interesting for me to write.**

 **These are looong chapters for me. All my original stuff has chapter lengths of about 4k-ish, but my original stuff is all YA.**

 **Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

 **I certainly enjoyed writing it!**

 **Until the next update**

 **-Moonlit**

 **P.S For some reason, two of my "(Section Break)" placeholders didn't get changed in the first posting. Whoops. My bad. It is fixed on.**


	3. Devil on My Side

**Hello! To all of those new readers, this chapter has been updated to accommodate new information from S3! Also, Iris's middle name has been changed. I never really was married to the idea of her middle name being Iris Marie, and I only recently found a middle name for her that truly fit.**

 **Sorry, but my old AN's weren't saved on the document of my computer, but yay, you get a new one!**

 **If you're a returner going back to read the** **updates, or if you're new, enjoy!**

* * *

 _Devil on My Side_

Iris woke up with a face-full of silk sheets, an alarm blaring from the next room. She was startled at first, disoriented. Sleep clung to her, trying to pull her back down. The bed was glorious, the sheets slick, blankets downy soft and wrapping her in a cocoon. Warm and fluffy and comforting. Matty's apartment slowly formed around her, and she breathed in the smell of egg, heard popping and sizzling from a pan.

She crawled out of bed, her muscles stiff and her head pounding. Her breath sour and sticky in her mouth. One of Matty's t-shirts and a pair of his sweats, the waistband tied extra-tight and the legs too long for her, swallowed her whole. She shuffled out of the bedroom, spotting Matty's form in the kitchen. "Iris, can you turn off the alarm?" he asked, back still to her.

"Uh…yeah," she blinked a little, crossing over to the coffee table. Her brother's phone was repeatedly chirping the time, proudly declaring 6:30am. She cut it off just as she noticed a pair of jeans and a button-up blouse waiting there folded. Looking so innocent except for one little detail.

"Matty, are these mine…"

"I woke up an hour ago," he said. "Figured you'd want a fresh change of clothes."

"Did you break into my apartment?"

"They match, right? I found denim and figured that was safe way to go…"

"You're avoiding the question."

"Your roommate was dead asleep," Matty assured. He flipped two omelets onto a plate. "I was quiet. I don't touch anything but your dresser."

The last thing Iris wanted to think about was her brother routing through her drawers.

"You know that's creepy as hell, right?"

"Hungry?" he carried the two plates over to the coffee table. He was dressed comfortably too, not bothering with his glasses. Which let Iris see the nasty bruising and scarring on his face. He looked scarily like their dad this way, and the comparison made her stomach clench.

"So when did you become a cook?" Iris took the offering. "Around the same time you decided to put a mask on at night and beat the shit out of criminals?"

He shrugged. "I had to learn. My sense of taste is…delicate. Sometimes the only thing I can stomach is clean, organic. I learned to cook to keep myself alive."

"How much more…sensitive have you gotten?" Iris asked. "Vigilantism is a long way from being able to tell if the neighbors are fighting."

"It took practice," he shrugged. "Remember when you explained aural skills to me? Musicians can already hear a lot of stuff—are naturally hearing it in the music they play—but it takes time, skill, _training_ to realize what you're hearing. How it functions. It was like that with me. All my working senses work together to give me this kind of… radar sense. It was there, since the accident, but it had to be trained, honed, for me to understand it. To be able to use it."

She didn't fully understand it. The comparison to something as familiar as aural skills helped. She remembered hours with audio tapes, groaning at blank measures of manuscript paper, willing sight and sound to line up. The glorious moment recognition when paper matched playback. The melody she was hearing becoming real and tangible. But the metaphor didn't quite give a clear picture how just what Matty's world was like. Just how he'd gone from a little kid catching conversations three apartments over to…well, whatever The Mask was.

Iris was about to say something else, to question it further, when her eyes drifted down to Matty's side, seeing a patch of scarlet on his shirt. "Shit, Matty…you're bleeding!"

"Yeah. I…popped a stitch when I was making breakfast."

"Why are you so casual about that? When were you going to address that?" she set down her plate. "Where's your kit?"

"Above the fridge. But, Iris, really. I…"

"No arguing. You're about to get the full extent of my superior suturing skills."

That coaxed a small smile onto his face and she went to retrieve the kit. He'd already worked off his shirt by the time she got back to the couch, and she swore when she saw what awaited her. An angry, gaping puncture wound on his side, a far cry above anything she used to stitch up when they were kids. And the nastiest bruises she'd ever chanced a glimpse at, crawling up his side, purple and angry.

"Holy…Matty, how are you…not bedridden?"

"I'm pretty good at taking a beating," he squirmed. "Guess I'm a lot like Dad that way."

Iris frowned, carefully threading the needle. "Here it comes."

He tensed, jaw clenched but making no other external reaction as she worked. "Hands are shaky," he quipped through a shuddering breath.

"Screw off," she snorted. There was something so familiar about this situation, and yet something so different. New. An odd mix of past and future. "Your hands would be shaking too if your little brother was in this state."

"Don't have a little brother, so…."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend it. Mine's a real pain in the ass."

He laughed, a small smile on his face, little lines crinkling at his eyes. As if everything were normal, as if his ribs weren't more than likely broken. As if he didn't spend all night rescuing a kid from a trafficking ring.

What had become of her brother, that he could take such a ridiculous beating and walk around like he was fine and dandy? What…or _who_ made her brother this way?

"All done," she murmured.

"I'm going to shower," he got to his feet, slowly, but pretty darn limber for a guy with a probable stab wound. "Finish getting ready. Don't worry about your plate. I'll handle it when I'm done."

"Matty, you're going to work like this?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," he shrugged.

"At least let me walk with you."

"Iris, I'm perfectly capable of…."

"It's not about your capability. It's not about you at all."

He frowned, shoulders moving towards his ears and back again. A swift, silent intake of air. "Fine. But…will you make a stop with me?"

* * *

The little church was just as Iris remembered it, a beautiful stone building, simple but elegant. A small garden out front, encircled by an iron fence, and a red door for an entrance. And a bench, one where she and Matty would wait impatiently with their dad as Grandma Murdock talked to her friends for what seemed like hours. The business of the city seemed muted, far off, an almost supernatural pocket of peace.

It was here, by this bench, where Matty stopped her.

"Our old parish," she muttered, letting go of his arm. Her world for a moment was overly-starched dresses, Grandma Murdock fussing with the ruffles and frills. Iris's father winking at her during the services, silently promising her a treat after if she and Matty behaved.

Iris found the bench, almost swearing she smelled Grandma Murdock's Sunday perfume in the passing breeze.

"I don't know if you…kept the faith…" Matty muttered, sitting beside her.

"Most of my good memories of Dr. Manson are associated with the church," Iris wrung her hands together. Her was throat tight, the words fighting her all the way from brain to mouth. "His parish, the one he brought me to, was attached to a local soup kitchen. On Saturdays, we used to volunteer with group of sisters, serve lunch. I'd never seen him as calm as he was with them. I went with him every week even through my undergrad."

That was what had Iris conflicted. The good times. Saturday's in the soup kitchen, or Sunday services. Taking her out to dinner when she had a successful audition. Smiling proudly as she modeled the dresses he bought her for her next recital.

Happy memories of daylight, juxtaposed oddly against the night's she spent awake crying. An ache in her gut from missing the father and brother that grew stranger to her every day….

"Where'd you go to school?"

"Manhattan School of Music. Dr. Manson taught there. He made me commute with him. Was never an option for me to go anywhere else, really." Despite her hesitance to share, she couldn't stop herself now. "He had it all planned out. I was gonna get my masters from there, too. He was going to use his connections to get me into the Philharmonic like him. He even told me one day I might be able to take over as Principal. Seemed likely, too. Musicians were over the apartment all the time, always joked I'd be one of them soon. All my classmates sorta hated me for it, all the opportunities Manson got me. But, um, at the end of grad school…he'd always had friction with the Assistant Conductor. Rumors started flying through the orchestra…and, well he got fired. Moved us to Charlotte, North Carolina right after I graduated with my masters."

"You were so close all that time," he muttered.

"You weren't part of his plan, Matty," she said darkly. "Dr. Manson didn't let me focus on things that weren't part of the plan."

He was silent for a moment. "I was angry at you for so long…"

"I know, I know," the accusation stabbed her. Like a knife wound to the side. Or a Russian's fist to her eyes. "And I'm sorry. There was more I could've done. That friend, who took me to the gym, taught me a few things about boxing. Manson trusted him. I could've brought him in on it, but, I don't know I was scared to tell him what Manson was like. The whole school freaking loved the guy. Who was gonna believe spoiled little Iris, the girl who got everything they wanted." She felt the tears stinging her eyes. She was _so_ not ready for this today. Not after the night she'd had.

She was surprised when his hand squeezed hers. His touch was rough and calloused—much like their father's. "Iris," he whispered. " _I'm_ sorry too."

She shuddered, the sheer lightness in her chest overwhelming her. Forgiveness. Sweet, simple, _forgiveness_.

Her phone tore through the moment, startling both of them. She blinked a few times, trying to reconcile with reality, before fishing her cell out of her purse, her heart quickening at Josephine's name.

"What? Who is it?" Matty asked.

"My roommate," Iris chewed her lip. "Uh…I should…"

"Go ahead."

" _Where the hell are you?"_ Josephine didn't even bother to wait for Iris's greeting.

"Uh, hey. I…went out for dinner with my brother last night. Sketchy little place. I got food poisoning. He let me spend the night." Iris hated how quickly the lie came, but years of working around Dr. Manson had made her decent.

" _Ugh. That sounds awful. Are you okay now?"_

"Yeah. Yeah. My stomach seems to have finally forgiven me."

" _Great! Then get your butt back home. I have a job offer for you."_

"A job offer?"

" _Just get here. And quickly. Gotta practice if we're gonna make this sound good."_

"Um…alright," Iris hung up, taking a deep breath. "She…um….oh, who am I kidding, you heard the whole thing." She picked up her purse. "I'm gonna hail a cab."

"I'm going to stay here for awhile," he said. "I could…use another minute before I start walking again."

She frowned, the admission of pain not settling well with her. Still, he'd been instant on being able to handle himself. She didn't want to undermine the steps they'd taken in the right direction by pushing things too far. She didn't even know where she fit now, in this strange life of her brother's.

She decided on a change of subject.

"So, breakfast tomorrow morning?"

"Ethan's?"

"Yeah. Of course." She tried to push down her anxieties. "Be careful. Okay, Squirt?"

* * *

"Tell me you don't have a shift at Ethan's tonight!" was the first thing Josephine said as soon as Iris walked through the door.

Josephine was, unsurprisingly, still in her pajamas, and seated at the little upright piano they had in their living room. Her hair was tossed into a careless bun, a pencil sticking right through it. Josephine's cello music stand had been moved out of the way, safely tucked in the corner of the room.

"I don't," Iris agreed, setting her purse on the coffee table and then seated herself onto her couch. Fatigue hit her in waves, reminding her of how rough last night was and how little sleep she'd gotten.

"Bless!" Josephine hopped up from the piano bench and flinging herself down onto the cushions beside her roommate. "So, you know that art gallery I play piano for?"

"Yeah."

"Well, my boss likes me to accompany instrumentalists, keep things interesting. I was supposed to have a violinist play with me tonight, but he flaked. Please tell me you have rep with an accompaniment we can have presentable by tonight."

"I've got a few things," she agreed.

Josephine squealed, throwing her arms around Iris. "You're a life saver, Murdock. A _life saver."_

"Uh…." Iris wriggled free from the embrace. "Thanks."

"Okay," Josephine hopped up, jogging towards her bedroom. "Let's get moving."

"Moving?" Iris asked.

"Gotta prepare at least a little if we don't wanna mess this up right? We're going Aldridge to practice."

* * *

They spent the morning in Josephine's studio, which had a baby grand instead of an upright for the benefit of Jo's handful of piano students. Iris had to admit she was happy for the chance to perform again. She hadn't done anything major since Dr. Manson's funeral—and her playing that day had been a mess—and that truly had been the longest she'd gone without seeing the stage in awhile. Josephine was a killer sight-reader too, tackling most of Iris's available rep with tenacity. She read Iris well, making the conversation between oboe and piano a thrilling one.

"I think we're going to survive this," Josephine declared after a solid four hours of run through. "Iris, you really are saving my job here. My boss puts it on me to find the musicians, and I've stuck my neck out for this guy one too many times. If I didn't show up with another musician _again…_ "

Iris closed her oboe's case, offering her roommate a small smile. "Really, Josephine. It's fine. I'm never opposed to extra cash."

"Iris, if we're gonna live together, we're going to nix the 'Josephine' thing. Everyone calls me Jo."

"Jo," Iris tried it out.

"Jo Zhou. Rolls right off the tongue," Josephine chirped, bringing down lid down on the keys.

Iris allowed herself the tiniest of smiles. "I guess. I'm going to head over to my office, finalize a few things for my lessons today before heading to lunch."

"Sure thing," Jo winked. "Seriously, though. Life. _Saver."_

"You've covered that."

Iris meandered to her office, just a few doors down from Jo's, ready to embrace the silence, the moments of still, after the whirlwind she'd just come out of. She jumped, a tiny scream pushing its way past her throat when she saw someone sitting in one of her posture chairs.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you! I asked one of the teachers where your office was. She said I could wait for you in here."

"Karen," Iris breathed out the rush of adrenaline once she recognized her unexpected visitor. "You're good. You just…uh…"

Karen held up her hands. "I know you don't know me very well," she said, shaking her head. "But…I could use a sounding board." She let out a shuddering breath.

"Okay," Iris said, crossing to her desk. Karen didn't miss the wariness in the other woman's tone, but continued on in spite of it.

"Union Allied, my old employer…"

"Union Allied? Like the corruption scandal in the paper?" Iris instantly recognized the name. She'd found a copy in Patrick's house the night before, reading it when the "what's your favorite" spiel had died down and drowsiness was setting in. Some asshole white-collar big-shot with way more money then he should have had. Way too much money to have been obtained legally. A well-meaning employee had gotten an email exposing the criminal activity and smuggled the proof in a file and brought it to the Bulletin. Apparently, Iris had the pleasure of dining with that "well meaning employee." And…this information had almost gotten Karen killed. "This is the job where you found something you shouldn't have? They tried to kill you for what you found?"

Karen nodded. "They, uh, sent me a letter today. A very…scarily worded one. I went into their office. They want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement. To keep my mouth shut about what I'd found. What I've experienced. Offered me a shit-ton of money as 'compensation' too."

"Shouldn't you be telling this to…a lawyer? Like, my brother, for example?"

"Nelson and Murdock has been given an offer to represent a new client. Some dick with access to a fat bank account came by today, asking them to review one of the cases. Matt and Foggy are at the precinct now. I didn't want to drag them into it, but…" she sighed. "Iris, this doesn't seem right. I can't help but feel there's something more to this story. They _murdered_ Daniel Fisher, tried to frame me, and then they tried to kill me. And now they just want to sweep it all under the rug." Iris flinched. Karen had told her she'd gotten into some "trouble at work," but being framed for _murder…._

"So what are you saying?" Iris asked.

"I think there's way more to this story. It points at something… _bigger_ than a boss stealing millions. If I keep quiet…"

"You want to come forward with this?" Iris raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Karen weakly shrugged. "I don't know. It's just…I've tried to let it go, but it's….still there. They kill people, and they just try and…make it all go away with a few signatures? That seem right to you?"

Iris's life was stuffed to the brim with them. People willing to risk their own neck for the right thing. Honestly, Iris admired this woman's gumption. Whenever Matty and Iris butt heads as kids, it was over Matty's tendency to stand up for people in situations way over his head. He was their dad's son in that way. And, honestly, Iris had always admired him for it. But, she was just forming this new life, was she really willing to lose it all to martyrs?

 _Selfish,_ she scolded herself. She knew one reason her dad had done what he did with Creel wasn't just to prove something to his children. It was to teach them something. That the right thing was hard, even deadly. But right was right, and it was worth fighting for. Matthew 7:14. _"But small is the gate and narrow the way that leads to life, and only a few find it."_

"Karen, I'm not one to tell you how to life your life," Iris leaned back in her chair. The old thing squealed a bit in protest. "But, if you think this is what's right, then you already know what you're doing to do."

Karen's eyes met hers. "I guess I do."

Iris frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "I…can't imagine what it's like. This." She made an indistinct, all-encompassing gesture. "But, I'm here for you. If you need it. Whatever direction you decide to go in."

"Thank you," Karen stood, headed for the door. She paused, taking a deep, centering breath. "Iris, this may not be my business but, what is it that…happened between you and Matt? Foggy, he…"

"Hates my guts? As subtle as he is about it, I've picked up on the vibe." Iris scraped her thumbnail against one of the stains on her desk. It looked like it could be coffee.

One gesture, one innocent-misplaced gesture, and coffee became a permanent part of the wood's makeup. "Karen, I do have to caution you. Doing the right thing…it's gonna end up bloody sometimes. Know that."

* * *

Scene Contempo—the gallery where Josephine worked—was a significantly longer cab ride away than Iris was used to. Especially in a gown and heels. Iris was used to dressing up, of course. She'd sported the plum-colored gown she was currently donning on many, many occasions. But there was something about traipsing across the city in the back of a cheap cab, her expensive perfume—gifted to her by Dr. Manson's—mixing with the smell of old sweat and the cabbie's cigars.

The gallery was nice enough. She'd been to a million with Dr. Manson and Scene Contempo pretty much conformed to the norm. Still, a job was a job and Iris wasn't complaining.

"Josephine," a lush, heavily accented voice called out, stiletto heels making little staccato beats against the floor.

The woman that approached them was well put-together. The kind of woman others read about in fashion magazines. Sharp, keen eyes and a minx-like smile. Intensity wrapped up in an overpriced dressed.

"Vanessa," Josephine shifted at Iris side. "This is a colleague of mine, Iris Murdock. She'll be playing me tonight. Iris, this is Vanessa Marianna."

The woman shifted her gaze to Iris, unleashing the fullness of her perfectly lipstick-ed smiled. "Welcome, Ms. Murdock," Vanessa extended a hand.

"Pleasure," Iris made sure to keep eye-contact. Smile. Be calm and cool and professional. Adjectives Dr. Manson always drilled into her.

"I'll leave you two to it," Vanessa nodded. She waved to a couple admiring a painting across the room. "I've got to get back to work."

"Right. Thanks, Vanessa," Josephine grabbed Iris's arm.

Playing with Josephine was natural. Simple. Right. Hours easily melted away, a flurry of dialogue between the two instruments. Patrons buzzed around them, but they were afterthoughts.

Modulate to C-minor. Listen closely, feel the meter. Enter here. Cologne, laughter, champagne. Vanessa's heels, following her around like an anthem as she made her rounds. A-major. Counting's tricky on this one, careful. A hushed debate over a young artist's talent, food with hard-to-pronounce, a conversation over stock prices. Vanessa's voice, music in and of itself as she explained each piece in-depth.

Before Iris knew it, there was a break in their set. One of the waiters came by, bringing them both glasses of water. It wasn't standard tap. This was crystal clear and probably came out of a really expensive bottle.

Iris took the time to make laps, taking in the art her ambience had been helping to sell. The paintings were far above any pay grade she'd ever be part of again, but she had to admit there was a certain passion behind the whole affair. Passion Vanessa Marianna played like an instrument of her own.

"You know, maybe I should take up painting. If they can slap this much on Fifty Shades of Red right here…"

Iris snapped her head up at the sound of the familiar voice. It echoed of college days. She'd heard it on her first day in freshman theory, and every day after. She'd heard it on so many nights spent in a boxing ring after classes, when theory homework was too much. When ensembles were too cutthroat. Studio lessons with Dr. Manson's so familiarly stifling. Punching out their problems, one right hook at a time.

"Owen," Iris gasped. "Owen Danvers."

He looked almost like she remembered. Dark skin, goofy and crooked smile. Shimmery brown eyes. But there were differences too. An expensive black suit, corkscrew curls—curls she'd found adorable in undergrad—shaved close to the head. An earpiece in his right ear.

"Iris Manson," Owen grinned. "Never thought I'd see you back in New York."

"Murdock, actually," Iris cleared her throat. "And I just moved back."

"You here with the good doctor? He still a hard-ass?"

"Um," Iris choked at the question. She averted her gaze, feigning a sudden interesting in the painting. The more she stared, the more shades she found. "He's….he died, Owen."

Owen frowned. "And…that's why you moved back, I guess." She said nothing, just kept staring. "Iris, I'm so sorry."

"What about you?" she diverted the question. "Drastic life change from music student to …"

"I'm in private security now," he thankfully took the hint. "I still play, but this job keeps the lights on. Especially since my employer has pretty deep pockets."

"Your employer?"

She noticed a tangible shift in Owen at the question, his hands jamming into the pockets of his neatly pressed pants. He crinkled his nose and shrugged, which he always did before speaking when he was nervous. "Oh, you know. Rich and paranoid type. Pays me to punch sketchy people. He's here doing some shopping for his penthouse."

"So, which one of these patrons is he?"

Owen's eyes went a bit wide. "Well…"

"Iris!"

She turned her head around to see Josephine by the piano, waving her over. "And…my next set is starting."

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

He looked past her, locking eyes with someone in the crowd. Something deep inside of herself told her not to follow his gaze. "Yeah," he muttered, turning back to her and readjusting his smile. "Good to see you, too."

The remainder of the evening went well, the sense of rightness never fading as she and Jo resumed their dialogue. When their last set was over, most of the patrons had shuffled out, including Owen and, presumably, his mysterious employer. Iris's feet were aching and the most pleasant kind of tiredness—exhaustion after a fulfilling, productive evening—had settled over her. Scene Contempo employees, most of whom had been hiding behind the scenes all night, were out preparing the gallery for lock-up.

"Great job, ladies," Vanessa approached the pair, as Iris was dissembling her oboe. She held up two envelopes, handing one to each woman. "I always trust Miss Zhou's judgment, of course, but I must say you play very well, Miss Murdock."

"Thank you," Iris tucked the check into her purse.

"No, thank you. Thank you both."

"Miss," someone cleared their throat right behind Iris and she turned to see one of the servers standing there. She held out a folded piece of paper. "A gentleman here tonight left this and asked me to give it to you."

Iris raised her brow, taking the message. She unfolded the paper, finding a familiar messy scrawl. She had theory homework flashbacks for a moment.

 _"Owen, please tell me how your naturals look like flats and your flats look like naturals? I can't tell if you're trying to spell an applied chord or if you're trying to make our professor mad."_

She smiled at Owen's phone number staring back at her.

* * *

The little deli was pleasantly quiet,a few patrons talking in hushed voices over their subs. Iris spotted Matty at one of the tables in the back, with two subs and two glass bottles of Coke already in front of him. "Glad you didn't have trouble finding it," he said, as soon as she sat down. She guessed he probably knew she'd been there since she walked through the door. Probably…smelled her perfume from the doorway or some creepy-ass thing like that.

"What'd you order me?"

"Meatball marinara," he shrugged. "You still like that right?"

"My favorite," she agreed, undoing the paper wrapping.

"Thanks for meeting me here, by the way. I know it's a bit out of your way, but we don't get that long for lunch and this is close to the courthouse. And sorry about bailing on breakfast."

"Hey," Iris went for her Coke, "no problem. Gotta do what you gotta do, right? Defending the innocent by day and night."

Matty frowned, his voice dropping several decibels. "I'm not so sure how innocent our client is."

She froze. "What makes you say that?"

"The whole thing is…unusual. The man who hired us, he was very evasive about questions regarding his employer. He had this watch on. Expensive, with distinct ticking. I followed him when he left out office but.." he shook his head. "In court today, I heard the ticking and one of the juror's heartbeats picked up. Way up. She was scared. Whoever he's working for—whoever finds the need to pick up our client's legal tab—has something on her."

"Shit."

"You say that a lot."

"You give me plenty of reason to."

"I'm going to find out what they have on the juror. Make then excuse her."

"How are you going to…" she paused. "Oh. You meant…The Mask."

"She's an innocent woman, Iris. And she's terrified."

She hated how easy it was for him to read her. "I know, Matty. I know."

"I'm a big boy, Iris. I'm going to be okay."

"You didn't see yourself after you took on the Russians. I know your visual reference of 'okay' is a little skewed by time, but…damn, Matty."

He laughed, an obvious deflection. "I almost forgot how sarcastic you could be."

"Please. Please don't. Don't make the possibility of losing you a joke."

He tensed, forced smile fading as quickly as it came. "Iris, you're not gonna…"

"Can you guarantee that?"

A beat. They both new that she wouldn't have to hear his heartbeat to know that saying "yes" would be a blatant lie. "No. I can't."

The confession hung heavy, and she instantly hated it. She missed the church, how good just healing felt. She'd had her brother back then. She wanted him back now too. "Let's not do this," she muttered, taking a bite of her sub to accent her point. To try and get them back to "siblings just having lunch" territory.

"Let's not." Shoving unpleasant emotions into a folder labeled "deal with later." Filed in a cabinet that said "actually deal with never." Apparently, it was a Murdock thing.

They awkwardly got back to casual conversation, dancing around the abrupt halt and doing a horrible job at pretending it didn't happen. Soon, Matty had to get back to court and Iris watched him go, fading into the crowd. She stood in her spot, _feeling_ his absence in every facet of being.

She'd spent so long missing him, wanting her old life to be the way it was, but she'd taken comfort in the fact that she knew he was _there._ Even if he wasn't part of her life, he was somewhere out in the world. And now that they were together again, there was _this…_

Time had changed her Matty, far more than it had changed her. She only hoped that she could learn to somehow accept this part of him.

A shoulder bumped roughly against hers, knocking her back a few paces. " _Geez,_ Lady," the annoyed patron snorted, giving her a sour looking before continuing on his way. The New Yorker in her brushed it off, continuing on with her day as if it had never happened.

* * *

She didn't know why she was there. Her legs had simply taken her to the next cab she could hail, her mouth giving the directions to before she could think. It was evidentially between classes, because the halls were alive with noise. Children—all in hand-me-down clothes and carrying ancient textbooks—weaved around her. Nuns lined the doorways, welcoming students into the classrooms. She remembered being a little girl in her short stint here, rushing down the hall with the stern gazes of the sisters goading forward.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

The young, light voice startled her. Iris turned, seeing a young sister—unfamiliar, clearly far after Iris's time—standing there, slowly blinking.

Iris coughed a bit, squirming. _"Iris, young lady, you sit still."_ The voice of Sister Dora, who taught math, echoed in her mind. She wrestled with the memories, fighting for her place in the present. "Um…I was just.." Why _had_ she come here? "I …is Sister Maggie here?"

Sister Maggie had always been one of Iris's favorites, despite the fact that she struck the fear of God into the other children. She was stern, certainly. Iris had to admit she'd been afraid of her at first, too. But Iris eventually found that the older woman held a wisdom that could bring with it a great deal of comfort, a quick wit and a heart for the Lord. She rarely went to anyone but Sister Maggie with spiritual questions, and the nun had always been content to sit with her and answer anything the girl could think of.

The young sister shook her head. "Sister Maggie is actually in the city, supervising a field trip with a few of the other sisters." She eyed the spot on the pew next to Iris. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I…" she searched the young woman's face. "Well, I used to live here, actually. Before I was adopted. Not long, just for a year, but..."

"Wait," the sister's eyes lit up. "I thought you looked familiar! Iris Murdock, right?

The contours of the woman's face finally brought back the image of an old classmate. A girl who'd pass notes back and forth during classes, who held "slumber parties" in her room at night. Bringing flash lights and speaking in whispers in hopes the sisters didn't hear.

"Bernadette! Well…Sister Bernadette now, I guess."

"It's been awhile. Last I heard you and your adopted father moved out of the city."

"We did. But he passed recently. I just moved back."

Simple truths. Easy to talk about things. Shallow, concrete fact. Blissfully routed in the present.

"It's really good to see you. I don't know what you came to talk to Sister Maggie about," Sister Bernadette said quietly, "but…if there's anything I can do…."

Iris squirmed again, the question pressing in on her. She felt her chest tightening, the sheer _dread_ of going through all of this again weighing on her. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't even sure what she had been searching for, but something about her visiting her old church had drawn her here. And now she was regretting it, an inescapable urge to _run_ overtaking her in waves. Of course, all of this translated itself to _guilt._ Sister Bernadette's heart was in the right place, but all Iris could do was pull back. She shook her head, maybe a bit too quickly, clutching a purse like a lifeline.

"Thank you, Sister, but I uh…I should go."

* * *

The next couple of days, Iris kept herself firmly grounded in the present. She taught, giving her students spectacular amounts of her attention and energy. Her shifts at Ethan's were filled with idle chats with Andy between customers. She kept her distance from everything else, any interaction with Matty strictly electronic and delightfully superficial. Mostly updates on Nelson and Murdock's case, whatever attorney-client let her know at least.

After a little distance, perspective and time clearing her head, she finally felt ready to stick her toe back in the water. After news of Nelson and Murdock winning their case—granted, winning because of a hung jury with a client Matty had serious reservations about, a case was a case. And if she ever wanted to move past reveling in her past, to make any progress with Matty, she knew that involved Foggy and Karen.

So that was why she was schlepping up the stairs to Nelson and Murdock's offices around lunchtime, bearing a box of donuts from a local bakery. "Iris!" Karen offered a pleasant greeting, allowing Iris to release the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

There was shuffling and Foggy appeared in the doorway. Her brother's friend offered her a gaze she couldn't quite read. She put on a fake-ass smile and held up the donut box. "I came bearing gifts," she said awkwardly, holding up the box.

"Donuts," Karen rounded her desk, relieving Iris of the dozen. "Thank you."

"Jelly filled?" Foggy asked.

"That and others, it looks like," Karen agreed, lifting the lid of the box.

"Sweet. Deal me one of those," Foggy finally left his doorway, crossing the distance. He picked up a jelly-filled, making eye-contact with Iris, the donut hovering half-way to his mouth.

"I didn't poison it," Iris snorted, the comment seeing the light of day before she could even let it pass through her filter.

Karen choked on a laugh, Foggy's mouth quirking into a ghost of a smile. Iris decided to punctuate her point, daring to approach the desk. She picked up a chocolate frosted, taking a massive bite.

"Iris."

She shifted at her brother's voice, head swiveling to his office door.

"Did I hear you brought donuts?" Matty asked.

"You know, figured I'd be supportive," she picked up a Boston crème, which had always been his favorite. She placed the donut in your had. "Proud of the work you do at Nelson and Murdock." The distinction "At Nelson and Murdock" was important. Intentional. He noticed that.

"I was going to head to the hotdog cart down the street. Get us lunch. Would you like to walk with me?"

She saw the unspoken things in his face—the Mask's secrets, burning on him. And, since she was the only one in the room who _knew…._

She wasn't quite sure if she was ready for this, but, as much as she was still struggling to accept it, The Mask was part of him….a part she'd have to learn to

"Yeah. Sure."

They walked in relative silence out of the office building, Matt not daring to share what was on his mind until they were on the street. He found her arm and they began walking together, a few paces from the building before he decided to speak.

"Iris, thanks for coming. I needed…"

"What happened?" she stopped, perhaps a little too quickly. He almost caught her cue too late.

"Our client. He….there was a name."

"A name?"

"I think this is a bigger player. That our client was the tip of the iceberg."

"Could you…ask your client for more information? As The Mask?"

Matt frowned, hands on hips. "My client killed himself after giving up the name."

"Oh…" Iris muttered thinly, shivering. "What was the…"

"The name? Iris, the man would rather kill himself than face this man's wrath. Why would I…"

"Because I'm your sister," she snapped, the outburst feeling strangely satisfying. "I know the last years have been shit for you. And I know I've just suddenly shown up in your life. But you have to know—after everything I've told you—that I never stopped caring. And I never will. So if you're going to go around, punching people and getting yourself way in over your head, you're going to keep me informed. Because, dammit, we both know Dad would want me to look after you. And I sure as hell am not going to lose _you_ to this shit the same way I lost him. So, Matthew Michael Murdock, you give me that name."

He paused for a minute, the silence between them heavy. "Fisk," he finally said. "Wilson Fisk."

For some reason, the name sent fresh waves of dread down her spine. She decided not to revel in it, trying to expel the thought from her mind with a long, slow outtake of air. "See…was that so hard?" she laughed, desperately wanting to get past the awkwardness.

"Well, I really had no choice when you brought out the big sister voice. Never failed to scare me straight."

She tapped the back of his hand, and he found her arm. "Well, I think I may have gotten it from Grandma Murdock."

"I agree. Though, the middle name card was a bit much," he laughed. "Iris Magdalena Murdock."

"Well, maybe a little," she shrugged. "But it worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah." A beat, his face going dark. "Iris, what you said about Dad. I'm sorry I..."

"What happened wasn't your fault. Please don't go there. Just...don't let me find you like I found him, okay? Please don't do that that me."

"I'm sorry, Iris," he said again. Because he couldn't say anything else. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't leave The Mask behind. And she couldn't control how she felt

about that. And so there was a stalemate. And she figured it was she who was going to have to bend.

"I know, Matty. I know you are."

* * *

"Next lesson, we'll take a look at the sonata again. Remember to talk to Ms. Zhou about accompanying you."

"Yes, Ms. Murdock."

Iris had once again spent the day throwing all her focus into her work. She just finished a lesson with one of her oboists, who was currently dissembling her instrument.

"Good work today," Iris crossed to her desk, offering a small smile. "I'll see you next time."

"Thanks, Ms. Murdock," the girl grabbed her instrument and back-pack, heading for the door. The budding musician was almost knocked over on her way out by someone trying to enter the office.

"Owen?" Iris stood up, recognizing her old friend instantly. He was dressed in a suit, just like he was the other day, a leather briefcase in has hand. The earpiece was still present as well. "How did you...?"

"Well, I know you used to study here. I figured it was a logical place to look." He let his eyes flit about the small space. She'd decorated the office since moving in. Motivational posters about practicing, a few paintings she'd taken from Dr. Manson's before leaving. And, on her desk, a photo of her as a child, posing with her brother and father at Fogwell's.

"You never called," Owen pointed out.

"I've been busy. I did just move back. I'm still figuring stuff out."

"Oh," Owen said, claiming the hair on the opposite side of her desk. "Well, I'm actually here on a business matter."

"Business matter?" Iris repeated.

"Well, my employer...he really enjoyed your playing at Scene Contempo." He reached into his briefcase, producing a stack of papers. "He has an offer of employment for you."

"An offer..."

"He plans on asking a woman to dinner," Owen said, watching Iris as she scanned the document. "He has connections to the owner of the restaurant. My employer wants you to play during the meal. He wanted music and I, uh, put in a good word for you."

"Owen..."

"You'll find his offer compelling. Page Three."

Iris raised her brow, flipping though the pages, whistling when she saw the figure. "This much for a single job..."

"My employer's a generous man."

Her heart slammed into her ribs, shuddering to a halt, when she saw the name of this infamous "employer."

"Wilson Fisk," she whispered.

Owen visibly flinched at the name. "Uh, Iris. You'll notice one of clauses in the contract is not to discuss my employer's name with anyone other than legal council. If you feel the need for legal council in this matter." Owen coughed. "He's a private soul. Values his privacy above most else. He would prefer his name not be tossed around lightly."

The way Nelson and Murdock's client had reacted to giving away Fisk's name, Iris decided "preferred" was too weak a word. This was decidedly a road she was better off not going down.

"Owen, I…." she stopped herself before she even began to decline, a new thought replacing her initial apprehension.

Matty had to be scrambling for a way to find more information on this Fisk, and the only man who had been willing to even begin to talk was now in a hole. She wasn't sure how far her brother was willing to go to find something out, but from what Iris had seen so far, The Mask was willing to go to pretty dangerous lengths to get the job done. If she could get close, even in just this small, incremental way….perhaps it would chase away the feeling of helplessness. She could stop waiting around for her brother to turn up dead. She could actually be proactive, do _something_ —no matter how small—to keep him safe.

"I'm really grateful to you for putting in a good word," Iris grabbed a pen from the little cup she had on her desk. She took a deep breath, the point hovering just above the line.

 _Matty's going to be pissed at me,_ she thought, before singing her name.

* * *

 **Blessings!**

 **Really enjoyed updating all the Sister Margret stuff, because what S3 gave us with her was far beyond anything and everything I could have ever hoped for with her.**

 **-Moonlit.**


	4. A Song for the Beast

**Let me tell you about Moonlit's past month cause...ouch.**

 **Okay, so I have had a lot, and I do mean, a _lot_ of personal crises (minor ones, so please don't worry about me. I have a strong faith and a strong support group). **

**Holy cow, not gonna lie April was not kind to this little writer. At all.**

 **And...May's started off a little rocky too.**

 **That being said, here is Chapter 4. I do apologize for the delay. But...yikes.**

 **Summers are unique times for me, because I am a camp counselor, but I am gonna try and keep the updates coming.**

 **This is a touch shorter than the other chapters, and honestly I...am not entirely sold on it. But, heh, I did my best.**

 **I'll stop second-guessing myself now and just let you read!**

* * *

 _A Song for the Beast_

There was a stabbing under Iris's ribs as she rushed into Aldridge three minutes after the start time of her first lesson. She was still reeling, carrying with her the panic and disorientation of a deep sleep and an alarm that never blared. Her body had shut out the world, emotional exhaustion from her dealings with Matty pulling her further under than she usually went. After a late night shift at Ethan's, she really didn't stand a chance of waking at a decent hour.

Heaving for air, she thrust her weight against her door, tripping over her heels as she rushed inside her studio. "I'm sorry I'm late. I…." she cut herself off, blinking rapidly at the man seated on the opposite side of her desk. "Can I help you?"

It sounded harsher than she'd intended, but strangers turning up in her studio was starting to become a regular occurrence. An occurrence she was not comfortable with. Aldridge _really_ needed a bouncer….

The man was well-dressed, olive skinned and with a smug, pseudo-charming expression. Eyes as blue as anything, hark thick and dark and wavy. He offered Iris a smile she supposed was supposed to be cheerful and warm but sort of just came across as… _probing._

"Ms. Murdock," the man stood. "Your first lesson as been canceled. Chicken pox. The mother called, left a message on your machine while you were out. Couldn't help but overhear."

"How long have you just been sitting here?"

"Your fellow teachers did tell me to wait in your office."

Iris was going to have to have a talk with her "fellow teachers" before one of them let a serial killer just hang out in her posture chairs.

"You've recently signed a contract with my employer," the man stood up, not waiting for a response.

Iris swallowed. Her contract with Wilson Fisk. The one she'd yet to tell Matty about. She found herself falling into her desk, cold dread seizing her chest. "Right," was all she found herself able to say.

"I am here to inspect and approve repertoire for the evening and bring copies of the scores to the accompanist we have lined up."

"Repertoire?"

"You have prepared for this job, yes?"

She blinked, trying to get ahold of herself. _Calm down, Iris._ "Of course. Forgive me, I've had a rough morning and you surprised me a little." She popped open her music bag, producing a handful of scores. "For you. And your employer."

The man narrowed his eyes at the music, and Iris wondered how much of it he understood. If, like her, printed notes could sound in his head to some degree, giving her a vague idea of the piece. "Very good choices, Ms. Murdock. I commend your taste." He stood, storing the music in his own briefcase. "I will be seeing you tomorrow." He stood, preparing to go out.

"Do I get your name? I know your employer isn't too keen on introductions, but this _is_ my office…"

"Wesley," the man cut her off. "James Wesley." And he left, his presence lingering like a bad stench.

* * *

Iris fidgeted just outside Matty's apartment, passing her weight from heel to heel. Her last lesson also canceled because of a case of chicken pox (apparently, it was going around Aldridge) and so she'd decided to swing by her brother's before her shift at Ethan's. She wasn't sure if he already…patrolling (was that a good word?) for the night, but she owned it to him to at least…mention the contract with Fisk.

"Iris, are you gonna stand out there all night or are you going to come in?" his voice floated from behind the door.

"Show off," she grumbled, entering the apartment.

Matty was half dressed in his outfit for The Mask, foot on the coffee table as he laced up his left boot. Its mate was sitting waiting for its turn, his cowl at the ready. "Hey, Squirt."

Matty paused, lowering his foot to the ground. "You have something to tell me."

"Okay…we really need to talk about boundaries with extra-sensory perception thing."

"That wasn't extra-sensory perception," he shrugged. "That was being your brother."

"You're right, I did come here to say something." She wasn't sure how to proceed, but her hammering heart ensured she'd have to say something. His head was titled towards her, listening. Betrayed by her own nerves. Band-Aid approach then. "You know that gallery job I worked? Well, a wealthy man heard my playing and wants me to help woo some girl with the aid of my oboe."

"A wealthy…" he tensed, figuring out the implication of her statement. "Wilson Fisk. Iris, you didn't."

"You don't get to lecture me, Matty," she said. "I get that you're not going to stop. I even think you have this twisted notion you _can't_ stop. So, screw it. I'm helping you." He didn't say anything, so she kept going. "And, if you don't _want_ my help, I'm getting a shit-ton of money out of this anyway."

There was a moment where neither Murdock said a word. Tense silence. Iris was afraid there would be a screaming match. That he'd kick her out of the apartment, out of his life. That isn't what happened.

Matty grabbed his other boot, jamming his foot inside. "When is the job?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "It's in a public place, I'll be fine."

"I've been tracking the Russians, trying to get what I can," Matty said. "None of them are talking. And Fisk comes right to you.."

"Technically, Fisk's employees came to me. But yeah."

He offered her a wry smile as reward for the terrible attempt at humor. "Just…be careful, okay?"

Iris grabbed his mask from the floor, placing it in his hands. "I will if you will."

* * *

"Got a table of two for you," Andy said as Iris came back in from running the trash to the dumpster.

"Sure thing," the younger woman wiped her freshly-washed hands on her apron she grabbed her pad and pen from her pocket.

"Hey, what can I get started for…" Iris's usual greeting caught in her throat when she saw who here customers were. To the man's credit, he seemed just as shocked to see her as well.

"Iris," Patrick blinked, his grip on the menu slack. "You work here?"

"I….uh…yeah…"

"You must have just started," Patrick said. "Ian and I are regulars, right buddy?"

"Right," Ian agreed, flashing a toothy grin. "My tutor lives nearby. Daddy takes me here after I meet with her. Can we have two slices of peanut butter pie, please?"

It took Iris's brain a second to process, but she nodded numbly. "Anything else?"

"A coffee," Patrick said.

"Coming up."

It took all of Iris's strength not to run from the table…and right out of the diner. But Andy was staring. So Iris kept her calm and grabbed the coffee pot from the counter, praying her boss wouldn't press the issue.

"So how do you know Patrick Kent?"

 _"Shit,"_ Iris swore under her breath, taking a centering breath before turning to face her boss.

"We met briefly when I first moved back," Iris grabbed a coffee mug, hoping that keeping busy would dissuade Andy.

"Patrick and Ian come in all the time. Patrick's an electrician, helps out at my apartment building, since the repairmen our landlord hires…well, don't worry about any of that. Nice guy, Patrick."

"I'm sure he is," Iris skirted past the older woman, headed for the refrigerated display where they kept the pies. She felt Andy's stare on her back, but ignored it as she carried the Kents' order to their table.

"Thank you," Patrick offered her a small smile.

She could only return the gesture with, "I'll be back to check in on you in a few minutes."

"So, where did you meet him?" Andy leaned across the counter as Iris approached. The younger woman claimed a stool, scraping her thumbnail along the countertop.

"Andy, it's not…I don't really."

"Oh, I get it," Andy wiggled her eyebrows. "I'm hip you know."

Iris choked. "Andy, _no._ That is definitely not what this is about."

"So you admit there is…"

"We both got saved by the masked man, okay?" Iris let out a shuddering breath. She felt instantly guilty for saying even that much, but saying she was saved by The Mask wasn't necessarily a direct line to Matty. And, it worked to get Andy off the trail.

"Iris," the older woman rounded he counter, throwing a comforting arm around Iris's shoulders. "Honey, are you okay? What happened?"

"I don't….it doesn't matter. I can't talk about it. We're both safe, that's what counts."

"Yes you are," Andy nodded empathically. "I'm so sorry I pried."

"It's alright."

"Patrick is a nice man, just so you know," Andy assured. "Deserves a little respite after what he went through with his ex-wife."

Iris remembered not seeing a single picture of Ian's mom. Of Patrick's sensitivity to the subject.

"What about his ex-wife?"

Andy shook her head, a silent request for Iris not to keep asking. So, Iris let the subject drop. Instead, she focused on Andy, for the first time taking in the dark circles under the woman's eyes. The slump of her shoulders. The way her usually vibrant and knowing eyes were a bit dull and listless. Iris had been so consumed with her own business that she hadn't given noticed until now…

"Andy, is everything okay with you?"

"Yes. I'm okay, don't you worry."

"Come on, Andy. You take such good care of me. Let me at least try and return the favor."

"It's nothing to worry yourself over. Haven't been sleeping all that well is all. Landlord hasn't been putting priority on our repairs, is all."

"What do you mean by that? If you think you think it's a problem, you can talk to Matty. I'm sure he…"

"Iris, don't even worry about it."

The bell jingled, a young couple skipping inside. The girl laughed at something her boyfriend was saying, swinging his hand back and forth as they headed for a booth.

Andy made a move to go help the customers, but Iris intercepted. "I've got it, Andy."

"Iris, you don't…"

"I've got it. And I'll stay on later. Help you out in setting up for the breakfast shift."

"Iris…"

"I insist," Iris grabbed her notepad, winking at the other woman. "Face it, you're stuck with me."

* * *

Matty was visibly startled by Iris's presence when he emerged from his bedroom that morning. She was seated on his couch, legs crossed and two breakfast sandwiches from a deli between their two apartments sitting in a paper bag.

"Iris?" he asked, groggily. He was moving slowly, Iris's unexpected presence meaning he hadn't been putting on the charade of being okay. "What are you…?"

"You break into my apartment, only fair I break into yours right?" Well, it wasn't breaking in and they both knew it. He'd had a spare key made for her shortly after the night with Patrick. A "just in case" sort of precaution. She nudged the bag with the toe of her shoe. "Breakfast."

"I smelled the food before I smelled you," he agreed, finishing off his sentence with a soft groan.

Iris frowned, taking in his appearance. As he usually did, he'd slept shirtless, allowing Iris's full view of the nasty new gash across his upper chest. And the rather impressive stitch work keeping it closed. "You were never _that_ good at stiches," Iris noted.

Matty gave a half-hearted shrug. "Remember the nurse who helped patch me up after the Russians' trap? I've kind of been going to her, letting her stich me up when things get bad. The night with the Russians…if it had been either one of us trying to…." He graciously abandoned the thought. "Clarie's a good person, Iris. I trust her."

The way he said that made Iris smile. She grinned, offering a half-laugh. "So baby brother's got a crush, huh?"

"Iris…come on, that's.."

"Look, she kept you from dying. I approve."

"Iris, seriously. I get enough badgering about my love life from Foggy. I don't need your input as well."

"You always need my input, Matty. That is my legally mandated job as the elder sibling."

He snorted. "Didn't you work a late shift last night? Why aren't you home in bed?" The evasion was clear, and though Matty's smile was pleasant, it also begged Iris to stop. Given her own recent experience with similar goading, she decided to honor the request.

"Volunteered to help Andy in getting ready for breakfast. She's been having some trouble with her landlord, and I sounds pretty sketch to me. I'm not the Murdock with a law degree, but its sounds like she may actually have a case. She wouldn't budge when I suggested she talk to Nelson and Murdock. Still, do you think she might have some grounds for legal action?"

"Hard to say without more information," Matty said. "See if you can get more out of her, we'll go from there."

"Thanks, Matty," she said, her voice giving way to a yawn.

"For now," Matty sat down beside her, fishing his sandwich out of the bag. " _You_ could use some sleep. Big night tonight, right?"

Iris's heart squeezed at the mention of her gig for Fisk.

"Yeah," she shuddered. "Big night."

"Speaking of which," Matty crossed over to his counter, tossing a small flip phone in her direction.

"Why are you giving me a burner?" Iris asked, tossing the small object between her hands.

"Smart phone is too fragile for the Mask. So I leave it here," he said. "So, this is what I carry now. Claire's number is in there. Put yours in, under a fake name obviously, and memorize the number. If you need to get a hold of me, or I need to get ahold of you while I'm out, this is how we do it. If anything, I mean _anything_ , goes wrong tonight call." He frowned. "Promise me you'll call if you need to, Iris."

She thought he was being hypocritical, given the fact that he was the one who risked his ass on the streets night after night, but this form of contact worked both ways. He was giving her a way to make sure he was safe as much as a way for him to make sure she was safe. So she relented, typing the info for "Jane Manry" (the first name that came to mind, for whatever reason) into the burner's contact list.

* * *

Iris shuddered as she stared at herself in the mirror, the smell of heated hair and styling spray a little too overwhelming given her current state. Regret over the whole situation was building up inside her. Fisk was dangerous. Probably more so than she or Matty realized. And yet, Matty was spending night after night trying to go after this guy.

She swallowed hard, trying to console herself with the fact that she had the burner, her brother's vigilante side hidden under the name "John Manry" and available for her to call whenever she needed it.

"You good there, Murdock?" Jo asked from the shower, poking her sopping wet head from behind the curtain. "Don't tell me you're nervous about being background music for a restaurant."

"I guess I'm just being silly," Iris offered a half-hearted shrug. "It's a well-paying job, I want to do well."

"Please. You'll do great," Jo killed the water, snatching the towel out from off the rack. She came out, covered up. She made a shooing motion with her hands, a request for Iris to step hogging the mirror. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not jealous that a super rich stranger didn't offer me a small fortune to play for his date."

"I told you, an old friend got me this job," Iris shrugged.

Their doorbell cut through the conversation, and Iris let her breath hitch as she checked the time on her phone. Right on the dot for when Fisk's employees were supposed to pick her up.

"You'll be fine, Murdock," Jo waved her hand.

"Here's hoping," Iris grabbed her phone off the edge of the sink, dropping it into her silver clutch.

Iris went to the door, relieved when she saw it was Owen who had been sent to retrieve her. "Pretty dress," he nodded to her deep blue gown. "You look really good, Iris."

"I'm just glad it's you," Iris closed to door behind her, began walking for the elevator. "That Wesley guy your employer sent over was…interesting?"

"My employer sent Wesley," Owen stopped in his tracks, whirling on a dime to face her.

"Yeah. He came to my studio to approve my repertoire," Iris raised an eyebrow.

"I assumed you sent PDFs in. That was supposed to be my job."

"Owen, you're scaring me."

He grabbed her forearms, startling her. "Look at me, Iris. Right in the eyes."

"What…"

"Just look at me," he cut her off. "I need you to be honest with me. My employer sending Wesley…well, that could one of two things. One, my employer had need of me and send him to take care of it, or…something else."

"Something else?"

"Iris, is there _anything,_ and I do mean _anything,_ any secret you think my employer would be interested in knowing?"

Iris's whole world narrowed to a singularity, and it took all of her strength not to go rigid in her friend's arms. Could Fisk have…someone gotten wind of her knowing The Mask? Did he have any inkling who Matty was, where he lived? Had Owen's "employer" been following her?

"No," she said, a gorgeous lie than only Matty would be able to detect. "Not at all." Owen relaxed, pasting on a rather unconvincing version of his goofy grin. Iris played along.

"What's with the melodrama, Owen?" she quipped, starting towards the elevator again. She tossed a gesture over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. Because if she faced him, he'd see the tears of terror she was attempting to fight back.

* * *

They drove her to the restaurant in a limo, and she spent the whole time sipping on champagne and talking with Owen. She tried to pretend they were two undergrads, arguing over theory homework. They were both trying to pretend the freak-out in her hallway didn't happen, that nothing had changed since late nights in the practice rooms.

When they reached the destination, the driver escorted Iris out and into the night. The tinted windows and distracting company had ensured she wouldn't quite pin down her route, which Matty would have killed her for. Still, she could give him her surroundings over the burner and he'd probably be able to find her. She had a feeling nights in the Mask had given him an intimate familiarity with the city.

The restaurant itself looked like the kind of place she could only afford to go to with Doctor Manson. There were other patrons, of course, but a table for two had been set apart from the others, elegantly set and resting right next to a baby grand. The pianist was a gruff older man, who stiffly acknowledged Iris with merely a curt nod.

"Shall we tune, then?" Iris set down her clutch, unhooking the latched on her case and removed her dissembled instrument.

"My employer will be arriving soon," Owen explained. "I have just received word they car is pulling around the block. Please, be ready quickly."

Iris attached her reed, offering Owen a reassuring smile. "This part, you don't have to worry about." She winked, turning to the piano to begin tuning. Iris and the pianist ran through their first number to get a feel for one another. It wasn't as natural as playing with Jo, but it would have to do.

A few moments later, Owen's posture shifted dramatically and Iris followed his gaze across the restaurant. She almost missed an entrance when she saw her friend's employer. She identified him easily enough, especially since he was escorting Vanessa Marianna herself.

Fisk…looked strangely normal, at least at first glance. He was very present, tall and with a stocky build, and completely bald. His suit was definitely expensive, but he didn't look all that comfortable in it. Or maybe it was just his own skin that caused him discomfort. His eyes held an uneasiness to him. There was a kind of nervous air that reminded Iris of a young high-schooler picking up his date for prom. He pulled out Vanessa's chair for her, launching into a nervous tirade about the menu selections.

And yet the way Owen grew visibly more tense in the presence of this man…

Iris drowned out everything, and kept playing. She'd purposely chosen songs she knew in her very soul, songs that would allow her to listen to the conversation. She had, after all, come with a purpose. They said nothing of merit, simply small talk and Fisk ordering a fancy-sounding wine, all allowing Iris's first song to pass uneventfully.

"I see you've hired one of my musicians," Vanessa smiled in Iris direction, causing the musician to pause. "It is wonderful to hear you play again, Ms. Murdock."

"Thank you, Ms. Marianna."

"Ms. Murdock, I found your playing particularly pleasant," Fisk agreed. "The oboe is a tricky instrument to master, but you do it justice. I am glad Vanessa shares the sentiment."

"I'd love to share another song," Vanessa said.

"Of course," Fisk turned his gaze fully to Iris. It was all she could do not to shrink away. Not because his gaze was all fire and brimstone…quite the opposite. He had a shyness to him…but there was something beneath that. An instability Iris would have missed if she didn't know the truth. "You would please, Ms. Murdock?"

"Right away, Sir." Iris found her voice, picking up her next piece. She was thankful for the music, using it as a barrier to let herself hide away from this potentially dangerous man. What followed was…dinner conversation. Vanessa's attempts at humor being met with Fisk's shaky smiles. Iris couldn't follow every word. It was impossible to juggle that with her own playing. She wasn't sure what she had expected to find, but from the outside this could have been a completely normal date. An awkward, stammering man and a charming, dazzling woman attempting a connection. It was all rather run of the mill, until…

"When I was twelve years old, my mother…she sent me to stay with relatives. They had a farm, middle of nowhere. Those were good years."

"But you came back?" Vanessa asked.

"Yes," Fisk nodded. "Time and..distance. The they afford a certain...clarity. I realized that the city was a part of me, that it was in my blood. I would do anything to make it a better place." He leaned slightly more forward towards Vanessa. "For people like you."

Iris song ended, and she found her arms peppered with goose bumps, her breath a little shaky. Owen, standing guard just in eyesight, raised an eyebrow at her.

Vanessa smiled, unfolding her arms and picking up her glass of wine. She extended it towards Fisk. "To a better place."

Iris stated her next piece, the little snippet of conversation nagging in her mind. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but if Fisk was the dangerous mastermind Matty's client implied he was….

And then there was the matter of Owen's behavior in her apartment, her whole interaction with James Wesley. All things that laid just outside the realm of normal, existing uncomfortably in the uncanny valley.

Despite Iris's growing apprehension, Fisk himself seemed to warm up to the evening. And with his growing comfort, Vanessa's smile grew. Through the whole meal, Iris found nothing but odd, unsettling normalcy. Right up until they were debating desert.

"I told you, he's indisposed," the voice of Wesley came from the doorway, its familiarity leaving Iris with a bad taste in her mouth. A vague commotion accompanied the outburst as Wesley attempted to keep an indistinct figure from entering. Fisk's security, Owen included, came to life. The pianist stopped playing. Iris lowered her oboe.

"Sir," a tall, leering man attempted to shoulder his way past Fisk's security. "I need to speak with you."

He spoke with a Russian accent, which, of course, made Iris's stomach turn. She retreated a step, her back finding the crook of the piano.

"What is this?" Vanessa asked.

"We need to go," Fisk muttered, gently leading her from her seat. "Now."

"My brother and I," the Russian man yelled, "we gratefully accept…"

"Wesley will take care of you," Fisk cut him off.

A hand grabbed Iris's forearm, and she let out an involuntarily squeak. "Come on, Iris."

"Owen, what's…"

"Come on," his grip firmed and she barely had time to grab her case before he dragged her towards the back door, right through the kitchen. The staff looked up, offering glares, but said nothing as he pulled her through.

"What the hell was that?" Iris demanded, wrenching her arm free once they were outside.

"Yes. I'll be there in a minute," he said into his earpiece. "I have to take care of the oboist." A pause. "Thanks. I'll bring her around front."

 _"Owen,"_ she repeated.

He turned to face her, taking a deep breath. "All you need to know, is that you should _never_ discuss what you saw tonight. Ever."

All she managed was a vague nod as he led her through the alley to the front of the restaurant. The limo was waiting for her, but she shook her head fervently. He knocked on the window, giving her address to the driver.

"Make sure you get her there safely," Owen added.

"You're not coming with me?" she asked.

"I can't," he shook his head. "But don't worry. He'll take care of you. Go, quickly."

She only stared at the vehicle, her world spinning. "Owen, who is Wilson Fisk?" her voice came out in a taut whisper.

Saying the name aloud, it was like he'd been struck. Owen shook his head, nudging Iris another step towards the car. "Someone you don't want to piss off."

* * *

When Iris got pack to her apartment, Josephine was in her bedroom. She was streaming something, probably on Netflix, a faint glow and the low hum of voices radiating from the other bedroom. Iris's heart was still working overtime, the whole limo ride back nothing but a tense exercise in pretending nothing was wrong. The driver hadn't closed the privacy screen, and she had a feeling asking him to do so would result only in a convenient language gap.

She was reminded of being younger, her earliest days with Dr. Manson, sitting though dinners with orchestra members, following rather epic shouting matches. She had to sit still, smile through dinner with the musicians. Smile as if nothing was wrong, let no one know the truth.

And so that was how Iris spent the ride.

Now that she was free, she was on the verge of breaking down, her whole body quaking from the pent-up emotion. With shaky hands, she undid the latch on her clutch, fishing out her phone.

Her throat closed when she saw six missed calls from "John Manry" on her phone. She feared the worst until she saw a missed call and voicemail from Matthew Murdock just beneath that notification.

Letting out a shaky breath, Iris brought the phone to her ear and let the message play.

" _Iris…they….the Russians. They got Claire. I have her now, brought her back to my apartment, but…Iris, I could really use you right now. Can you come over? And can you bring something from the pharmacy for me?"_

"What a shitty night," Iris laughed bitterly, going to the counter to grab a notepad for Matty's list.

* * *

"Hey, I'm here."

Iris had thrown on comfortable clothes but didn't bother to take off her make-up or let down her hair before hailing a cab to her brother's apartment. She found her brother at his table, tending the wounds of a stranger.

She was pretty, dark-skinned and dark-haired, though her features were marred by several nasty looking cuts and bruises. The stranger tensed at Iris arrival, looking the newcomer up and down.

"Relax," Matty assured. "This is Iris, you can trust her. Iris, this is Claire Temple."

"Nice to meet you," Iris crossed over to the table, setting down the pharmacy bag with a purposeful noisiness. "Looks like everyone's had wild night because of the Russians."

"What happened?" Matty asked.

"Later," Iris grabbed the painkillers with sleep out of the bag, twisting off the child-proof cap and handing Claire two tablets. The woman sucked in a breath, staring warily at her.

"It's okay," Matty assured. "You can trust her."

"So how do you know Mike, Iris?" Claire's voice was ragged, probably from screaming and sobbing. Two things Iris would have definitely done if she'd been taken by the Russians. Regardless, the woman swiped to two pills, throwing them back with the glass of water Matty had already gotten for her.

"Mike?" Iris repeated.

"It's what she calls me," Matty explained. "Or called me. Until I told her my name. So, we'll just let the 'Mike' thing die. Right now."

"Right," Iris snorted. "I hope you know you're never living this down, _Mike_."

Claire chucked softly, the ghost of a smile cresting her bruised face.

"Iris," Matty's heart was only half-way into the argument. He was tired, ragged. And, beating himself up with guilt.

She wasn't sure she'd ever get used to seeing him like this. But, she'd have to try. For the sake of her relationship with her brother, she'd have to try.

"Go take a shower," she told him. "You smell like sweat and the blood of stupid-ass criminals."

"Iris," Matty repeated.

"Seriously. Go, I got this."

"Make up my bed for her," was all he said before shuffling towards his room.

"Matt listens to you a hell of a lot better than he listens to me."

"Well, he should," Iris shrugged. "I'm his big sister."

"He told me about your dad," she said. Iris paused, suddenly tense. "Sorta. Is he...around still."

"No."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"It's alright," Iris held up her hands. "You know, scares the shit out of me how much Matty's like him."

He could probably hear her from the shower, but screw it. She wanted him to know how much this whole thing scared her. How any end she could see was bloody and depressing and ended with...her life once again in shambles, ruled by the pain of loss.

"And you?" Claire shifted. "You don't...beat up criminals in your spare time?"

"Hell no. I'm an oboist," Iris shook her head. "I think I take after my mom, really. Though, that's more of a guess. Never knew her. She left when Matty was only a few months old. Dad never talked about her. I only have...faint memories, fragments, but I don't actually remember what she looks like or anything. She was...pretty, gentle. At least that's I pretend." Iris probably said too much. Here she was, spilling her guts to a near-stranger. But, Claire only listened.

"Well," Iris let her shoulders sag. "I am sorry I turned this into an Oprah special.

Claire snorted."I fished your brother out of a dumpster. Teary confessions about long-lost mothers? Casual small talk, comparatively."

Iris actually managed a smile.

"I'm just glad there's only one one of you to patch up," Claire shrugged. I don't know what I'd do if there were more vigilantes running around Hell's Kitchen." She winced, grabbing her side.

"The pain killers should be kicking in soon," Iris assured, because she really wasn't she what else she could say. "I can give you one of Matty's shirts and make up the bed for you."

Claire weakly nodded, large brown eyes locked with Iris, clearly unsure of what to say. Claire and Iris had something in common. The musician found the seat across from the nurse. "I'm really sorry this happened."

The only response was a weak shrug. "I knew there were risks. Men like Matt…danger follows them. And it tends to trickle outward."

Iris nodded slowly, the weight of her night catching up on her. Slamming into her body. She imagined herself falling in a ring, the mat hard and unforgiving. She imagined Wilson Fisk leaning over her, ready for a finishing blow.

And Owen standing on the sidelines, just watching.

* * *

 **Okay, well that was chapter four.**

 **Patrick is back. I don't know, I have a soft spot for him, but maybe that comes with knowing his whole dang story.**

 **Also, I am just now getting around to watching Iron Fist because I am a good daughter and waited to be home to watch it with my family. I am conflicted about it.**

 **BUT THAT DEFENDERS TRAILER DO!**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoyed**

 **Blessings**

 **-Moonlit**


	5. Hell Forbid

**Edited the scene with Claire at the end of the previous chapter.**

 **I wasn't really happy with it, but it took me until now to work out something more satisfying.**

 _ **Anyway,**_ **I just got back from a ten day cruise. And binge-wrote this all night, because it was itching at me the whole time I was at sea.**

 **Also, the more I write Iris, the more the levels of salt just...**

 **One of my best friends and I call her "salty foul-mouthed Catholic" as a codename.**

 **Guys, I am so overwhelmed by the positive response of this fic.**

 **I had no idea what to expect, how this would be received, but this project is truly a labor of love and I am glad people are enjoying it.**

 **Also, as I side note: I do have plans to do both seasons and The Defenders, when that comes out.**

 **On with the chapter, my friends.**

 **Let me tell you, this one was a bear.**

* * *

 _Hell Forbid_

"Sister incoming," Iris warned, wrapping on the door to Matty's apartment before letting herself in, "now would be a good time to reapply any removed pants."

"A little louder," Matty said from the kitchen, a bemused smirk tugging at his mouth in spite of himself. He was half dressed for work, in his dress shirt but without his tie or glasses. "I don't think the neighbors heard."

"I brought the clothes you asked for," she held up the duffle bag.

"She's in the shower, but she just turned the water off. If you knock on the door, you can give them to her."

"You're listening to her shower? Fifty percent creepy, fifty percent kinky."

"Please behave," Matty's sigh was longsuffering, his smile was genuine.

"Hell no," Iris tossed a wave over her shoulder, heading for the bedroom. "I've got years of ruining your love life to catch up on, Squirt."

The mirthful energy got sucked right from the room when Claire answered Iris's polite knock.

Iris couldn't help but wince at the other woman's face. The nurse blinked at her slowly from the doorway off Matty's bathroom, hair dripping wet and wrapped in a fluffy towel. The dark skin just above Claire's eye was angry, red and swollen. There was nasty bruise stemming from somewhere on her back, peeking right at her shoulder.

"Hi," she said, making Iris snap back into focus.

"Sorry," Iris thrust out the clothes she was carrying. "I just came over from my apartment. Figured you'd want some clothes to borrow."

"Thanks," Claire managed a smile, taking the offering.

Iris really wasn't sure what else to say and "sorry you got kidnapped and beat up by criminals" was a little too on the nose. So instead she just shrugged, muttering a half-hearted "you're welcome" before shuffling out into the kitchen. She fell onto the couch, shuddering a little bit. Matty said nothing, probably heard the whole conversation in all its awkward glory, instead focusing on the eggs he was currently cooking.

Claire emerged, hair still soaked but clothed in the comfortable lounge pants and loose sweater Iris had offered up. Matt physically shifted at her entrance into the room, a ducky grin crossing his features.

"You cook for every girl you bring home?" Claire asked. The ice broken, the ball in Matty's court.

"Uh, just the ones that keep me alive," Matty shrugged. Iris offered a silent snort, loudly enough for him to hear but Claire to miss. He shifted, clearly annoyed at the elder sibling's baiting, before rummaging through the fridge.

"You have a job to get to, or are you one of those billionaire playboys I keep hearing about?" Half a joke, but Claire was scanning the apartment, looking for any indication. Small clues about the man behind the mask.

A chuckle from Matty. "No, I have a job."

"Damn, thought I lucked out."

So, Claire was witty. Able to laugh through a shitty situation. Iris liked that.

"You a musician too, like your sister?"

Iris choked on her laugh. "Yeah, no."

"What Iris was _trying_ to say," Matty cut her off. "Is that I'm a lawyer. I have my own practice, so I get to be my own boss."

"Lawyer by day, vigilante by night. How does that work?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out."

The subtle subtext between their dialogue was glaring, body posture that awkward mix of guarded and wide-frickin-open that came with two people flirting, gauging the other.

Iris's cellphone cut through the moment. Just when she was calculating ways to enjoy herself. She checked the ID, Andy's name flashing across the screen. "My boss," she said. "I'll uh…" she let her gaze pass between the two others…"take this in the hall."

Iris stood, letting herself out.

"Hey, everything okay?" she asked when she picked up.

 _"Iris, yeah. I'm okay. I'm actually calling about….well, what you said about your brother's firm being able to help."_

"With your shithead landlord?"

 _"Iris Murdock, if your grandmother heard the mouth on you…"_

"Sorry Andy," Iris let out a laugh. "But, what's up? Did you finally decide to seek legal help?"

 _"Not me exactly. Elena, my neighbor. Mutual friend of ours, Bess Mahoney, referred her. With you telling me the same thing, I figured it was a sign. Elena's going in today, if your brother takes walk-ins."_

"He does," Iris assured.

 _"Good. I'm coming with her. Her English is a little fragmented, she's a little nervous about the whole thing. Would you mind coming with the two of us, make things a little more comfortable?"_

"Of course, Andy."

 _"Ten tomorrow? Meet me outside their office."_

"I'll let Matty know we'll be coming."

 _"Thanks. And tell the boys there's a free pie in it for them if they help."_

"It'll definitely sweeten the deal," Iris said.

 _"Good to know. See you soon, Iris."_ Iris pocketed her phone, slipping back inside the apartment….and nearly choked.

Matty and Claire were at the table, lip-locking like they had been starved for one another. Their foreheads were glued together, one of Matt's hands gently cradling her throat. His extra sensory perception didn't even pick up as Iris wandered further into the apartment, her arms folded as she watched the display.

Then finally parted, only just a few inches between them and Claire murmured, "I was wondering when you were gonna do that."

Iris couldn't resist the window. "Honestly, me too."

The two separated comically fast, Matty almost sending his chair clattering to the floor.

"Iris," Matt coughed. Claire looked everywhere but at his sister.

"Remember me telling you about Andy's landlord? Her neighbors coming in tomorrow morning to talk to you."

It took Matty a few seconds to remember anything, "Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow. Thanks." He stood up from the table, grabbing the tie he had draped over the couch.

"I have a question," Claire finally decided on how the subject was going to change. Or maybe she was bringing it back to whatever they were talking about before their lips got all intertwined. "Why don't you go to the police? With all you have on the Russians."

A weak shrug as Matt worked with his tie. "I wear a mask and beat on people. Doesn't exactly mesh with police policy."

Claire leaned back in her chair. "You're gonna end up in another dumpster, you try and take down the entire Russian mob yourself."

The truth of that statement hit Iris a little too hard. Again, Matty's vigilante side, the ever present possibility of its bloody end, wormed its into the room. She blew out a breath, looking to her feet.

"Maybe I only need to take down one man," Matty said.

"Wilson Fisk," the name tumbled from Iris's lips, her spine tingling at the sound of it.

"Cut off the head of the snake," he agreed.

"How do you even know Fisk is the head of the snake, if you can't find anything on him?"

"Well, he hasn't exactly come up completely dry," Iris muttered. "Last night, I played for Fisk's date."

"A date," Claire repeated.

"The guy is…a labyrinth," Iris shook her head. "If Matt hadn't told me about his former client, I'd never think anything was off. But knowing I knew…there's a beast under the surface, I'm sure of it."

All she could feel was Owen's hand on her arm, iron tight as she rushed her out of the restaurant.

"Your client?" Claire asked.

"There was a murder in a bowling alley, a man named Prohaska. Owned a majority in kitchen cab," Matty said.

"They were turning those over in the garage they took me to," Claire nodded.

Iris's mouth when dry. A casual reference to being taken and beaten to near-death….

"I think Fisk hired the man that killed Prohaska," Matty shrugged on his suit jacket. "Everything leads back to him, but no one will talk."

Claire was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. "Maybe you are beating on the wrong people," she muttered. "I heard a name when they were.." her throat closed up. She coughed, moved on. "The prick when the baseball bat reacted when he heard it. Like a dog when you yank his leash."

Iris found her hands were clenched into fists, her breath held.

"What was the name?" Matty, to his credit, sounded calm and collected, like he didn't even feel how sour the atmosphere had become.

Claire looked up, "Vladimir."

* * *

Elena Cardenas was a kind-hearted woman, who took an immediate liking to Iris. "Sweet girl," she had declared, taking Iris hands emphatically when Andy introduced them. Her accent was heavy, but her meaning was made clear by her sharp, warm eyes. Matt had come only moments later, putting all on his charm for the older women.

"Matty," she jogged up to him, grabbing his arm. "Elena and Andy are already here."

"Andy, Mrs. Cardenas," he said with a polite smile, extending his hand after Iris led him over.

"You're so kind, Matthew. Thank you so much for agreeing to help us," Andy accepted the gesture, then placed a kiss on his cheek.

The group traversed the stairs, right to Nelson and Murdock. Foggy and Karen were waiting, the Nelson half of the operation greeting both women with an air of jovial professionalism. Matty took the distraction, tapping Iris on the arm. He inclined his head toward his office.

"You go ahead into the conference room, Foggy," Matty said. "I need to ask Iris something."

"Sure," Foggy gave Iris his usual disapproving look, but she found it was easy to ignore it when she knew whatever Matty had to tell her had something to do with The Mask. She hadn't bothered going to his apartment last night to check on him. Claire was staying with him until the threat with the Russians died down, and she'd been too tired after her shift at Ethan's. With no calls on the burner, she figured it was safe to sleep. Figure he maybe even would stay in. Figures he wouldn't, even for Claire…

"I went looking into Vladimir last night," Matty said, his voice hushed, when he closed the office door behind him.

Iris knew she wasn't going to like this. "And?" she asked anyway.

"They think I cut off the head of Vladimir's brother."

Iris stomach curdled at that. "Someone…cut off…." She remembered the way Fisk had reacted when the date was interrupted, the fear Owen carried when he carried her out. "When I played for Fisk, a Russian came in and interrupted the date. I don't know it if connects, but…"

"I'm going to look into it," Matty assured.

Matty's way of "looking into it" was the exact opposite of reassuring.

"Matt, if Vladimir thinks you cut off his brother's head, he's going to be out for blood."

"I know that, Iris," he snapped.

She snapped right back, having the courtesy to keep her voice down. "Yes, you do. And you're going to be an idiot and go punching your way through this anyway."

"You're mad."

"No shit," she hissed. "Your heightened senses help you on that one?"

"I don't see how this is my fault, Iris. I didn't take anyone's head off."

"Oh good. Punching the shit out of criminals, throwing guys off roofs. At least you didn't add decapitation to the list."

That broke him. "I get that our relationship is on the mend, Iris, but you _weren't there_ for most of my life. This is important, this could lead to Fisk, _save people._ I do what I do to save others. Not cause harm. Bloodshed isn't my goal. Just the result," his voice had lowered into a near-growl. Dripping with feral determined rage he wore like armor when he was in The Mask. Vigilante and man, colliding. Maybe they were never separate.

" _Them Murdock boys. They got the devil in them."_

He softened, letting go of that inner devil. A slow, calming breath, and he was on his way back to being Matty. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I'm sorry. That was all they seemed to be able to say to each other.

"I know you worry," he kept plowing on, because it was obvious she wasn't going to say more. That's what most of there conversations had been. Laughter, banter. The old times. And then the damn Mask reared its ugly head. And boom. Matt was the devil and Iris was…she didn't know. "I guess you can never help that."

"Just like you can't help the Mask," she made herself say. _You can help it,_ she inwardly chided. _You damn well know it. You're taking the world onto your shoulders for whatever reason, and you won't let it go. Not even for me._

"I'm sorry."

Always apologizing. Always, always, always.

 _Selfish, that's what you're being,_ another part of her nagged. _Let people get hurt just so you can have some peace of mind. What a horrible thing to want. If it weren't for Matty, Ian would be…_

She sighed. "Yeah. Me too."

She knew, deep down, part of the problem was hers. She knew he wouldn't give up The Mask, not right in the middle of whatever was going on with Fisk, and if she wanted things to keep getting better, so was going to have to stop getting frustrated. It was just that…every time she thought she could maybe start to accept this side of him…there was another curve in the road.

"We should probably get out there," she managed.

* * *

Foggy and Karen were waiting for them with Elena and Andy in the conference room. Iris felt Foggy's eye as she sat down beside Andy, but ignored it in favor of not interfering with Nelson and Murdock's business. Her blood-feud with her brother's friend could wait until after business hours.

"So it was Bess Mahoney that referred you, Mrs. Cardenas?" Foggy confirmed, silently agreeing with the unspoken agreement.

"Yes. She refer me," Elena agreed in her broken English, following the statement with a string of Spanish Iris couldn't hope to understand.

Karen chuckled. "Something about cigars."

"You speak Spanish, Miss Page?" Andy asked. "Mine is awful. I came along to see what little I could do, but…"

Karen shrugged noncommittally. "Just what I remember from high school. I get by."

"Excellent," Andy offered a broad smile. Elena was clearly pleased with this fact as well.

"Mrs. Cardenas," Matt spoke up. "Tell us what happened."

" _Mi casa_ es…" she looked to Andy, but found her wording on her own, "rent control. But the landlord…Tully."

"Armand Tully?" Foggy cut her off. "Sleeze-bag owns buildings all over town."

Andy snorted in agreement, probably with the "sleeze-bag" arugment.

Elena agreed, continuing her story in Spanish. Karen acted as translator. "He wants to convert the apartments into condominiums," the younger woman explained. "He wants them out. Men came weeks ago. They said they were workers. They destroyed the apartments with an, um…" Karen's Spanish failed her. and she blinked slowly at the unfamiliar word.

"With sledgehammers," Matt offered.

"Sledgehammers," Iris repeated. "Andy, you never told me…"

Iris's boss held a hand up, asking her not to push it. Not there. Iris agreed, falling back into silence.

"You speak Spanish?" Karen asked.

"College," Foggy shrugged. "If you ever have a client who wants to chat in Punjabi, I'm your guy."

"Oh," Karen nodded. "Matt, you wanna…"

"No," he shook his head. "I like listening to your voice."

Iris blinked slowly at that, Karen clearly unsure how to take the compliment. Andy shifted around. Foggy cleared his throat, barely fighting a long-suffering eye-roll as he said, "Go on."

"There is damage everywhere," Elena said, once again through Karen. "They have no working sinks or pipes. They don't have water or electricity."

"And you didn't call the police?" Iris blurted.

Again with Foggy's….stare. Iris shifted indignantly. It was a valid question.

"We called them," Andy shook her head. "But, they said 'it's a city issue.' None of us want things to get messy. Lawyers, all the paperwork and time, but…we don't know what else to do."

"Well," Foggy nodded to the paperwork the women had brought. "It says Tully offered the tenants ten-grand to give up their rent-control. Maybe we can pressure him into a better pay out?"

"No," Elena insisted. "We do no want money. We want to stay in our homes."

Andy grabbed her friend's hand at that statement, giving it an assuring squeeze. "Mr. Nelson, most of us have lived there for years. We take care of each other. Share what he have, help everyone in need. My neighbors aren't just the people who live by me." She shrugged. "They're out family. And Tully…it's one thing to be a stubborn bastard, it's another to wreck someone's home because you're not getting your way."

"Mrs. Cardenas, Mrs. Locklear," Matt offered, before rattling off the rest in quite impressive Spanish. Foggy blinked, lost. Iris had something in common with him for about a few seconds. Andy, for her Spanish being supposedly "terrible," didn't seem to have much trouble. She smiled.

"Matthew, you really are a fine you man," she grabbed his hand. "Jack would be proud."

He smiled at that statement, but all Iris felt was a little bitter twinge. Yes, he'd be proud of the charming lawyer Matty played by day. But, what of Matty's other half? Would Andy be saying Matty was a "fine young man" if she saw him in The Mask?

And, of course, after the bitterness came guilt. Of course Matty was a good man. He did what he did because he couldn't stomach the suffering of others. She would be a dreamer to think the law always proclaimed the right guy innocent, always put the wrong guy away. Men like Matty, that wouldn't be enough. The only question was…when had Matty decided that it was his problem? His dad never wanted either Murdock to fight. Always told them that problems didn't have to be solved with your fists. So, where had that gone awry?

With the meeting over, Elena and Andy left the office, Iris lingering behind to say goodbye to her brother. To gauge how okay they were after their little spat in his office. "What did you say back there, by the way?" she asked, when the others had gone.

"Yeah," Foggy cut in. "I heard you say my name. Why did you say my name?"

"Oh yeah," Matt shrugged. "I told her you're going to talk to Tully's lawyer."

"Tully's lawyer?" Foggy repeated. "Do you know who reps him?"

Matt chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

"Landman and Zack," Foggy said. "Landman and _mother-fricking_ Zack."

"Doctor Manson was repped by them, before we moved out of the city," Iris said. "They're…expensive."

Foggy turned to her, almost like he were formulating a snarky comment, but thankfully he said nothing. Probably for Matt's sake.

"We used to intern there," Matty explained.

"And, they offered us a job," Foggy clarified. "A _great_ job. Which we turned down to go off and save the world. Now they hate us." He heaved a heavy sigh. "We're gonna need to load for bear if we're going to take them on."

Matt made a quiet hum of agreement. "I'll hit the precinct, check for complaints about Tully."

"I can't go to L and Z alone," Foggy argued. "They'll shark attack me. Look at me, I'm delicious."

"Mmm yes," Iris said. "I hear sharks feed off of terrible senses of humor."

"You would know," Foggy countered.

"Save the bloodshed for Tully's lawyers," Matty said, inching just a bit closer. To step between them if need be. "Maybe you should take Iris with you, Foggy."

"Yeah, I want to bring someone who won't take pleasure in my being devoured."

"So, take Karen."

Foggy blinked. "Uh…yeah. I mean, yeah. If she wants."

Their legal assistant smiled. "Sure. I've never seen sharks feed up close before."

Matt laughed. "Try not to splash to much. It attacks them."

Foggy let out a long overdramatic groan as Matt left the office, Iris at his heels.

Iris was trying to reconcile it.

Lawyer by day, vigilante by night.

Charming, cheerful. Trying to save the world with statues and legal jargon. And the Mask. Wild, angry. Trying to save the world by breaking one thug's jawbone at a time.

 _"I'll let you know when I figure it out,"_ he'd told Claire.

Iris wondered if there were a balance to be found. If Karen and Foggy would be so calm and easy if they knew what Matt truly was. She wondered if she could finally have some peace of mind if she _didn't_ know.

* * *

Iris was between lessons when Owen came, his demeanor instantly putting her on edge. "Hi," she said cheerily—so _cheerily_ —because she hoped with everything his distress had nothing to do with why he came. _Please just be in the neighborhood and coming by to say hi,_ she mentally begged, pasting on a smile.

"Iris," he said, dashing her hopes in just two syllables. He sat in the chair on the other side of his desk, twisting his hands together. "Remember when we used to just…lay in the boxing ring after our sessions? When we used to…fantasize about forgetting homework. About getting out of the city, leaving all behind. The politics and all the bullshit. To just…play, whenever, wherever we want."

"Ah yes," Iris nodded, trying to not let on how much he was scaring her. "To be that young and naïve."

"I don't know," Owen whispered. "I sometimes still wish…you know."

"Don't we all," it came out all breathy, tight.

"Do you still want that, to run away?" he blinked. "To get out of your life?"

She remembered telling him that.

For an instant, she was back in that old boxing ring, on that old dirty mat. She was an undergrad with nowhere to unload her problems but onto the scrappy, smiling thing she'd met in her musicianship class.

 _He snuck in a bottle of whiskey that night, making fun of her "Catholic guilt" when she refused to drink, steadily taking the whole thing for himself. Getting sloppier, more "philosophical" as the night went on. She was lying there, one arm propped up as she watched him. He was belly-up in the ring, limbs flopped out like he was an overgrown starfish._

 _"So," he said, "since you're still learning the rules of having a best friend, here's another one."_

 _Iris rolled her eyes. He'd been stuck on that, ever since she admitted it. That she'd never really had a best friend. Not one she wasn't related too, at least. But Matty, her only real best friend, was a bridge that burned more and more every day. He'd sworn himself then as her best friend, her tutor in "friend-ology."_

 _"Oh," Iris chuckled, flopping down onto her back. The ceiling was dusty. The specs that floated were almost like…stars. She could almost pretend they were out on a grassy hill somewhere. Somewhere far, far away._

 _"You tell your best friend stuff you've never told anyone. It's the secrets that bind you together."_

 _"You want me to tell you a secret, then?"_

 _"Secret for a secret," he nodded. "And each one is a link on the….daisy chain of our enteral friendship."_

 _"Daisy chain," she laughed._

 _"Screw off, it was a brilliant metaphor and you know it."_

 _"I….hate living here," Iris whispered, her voice paper thin. "Hell, I think I just may hate everything about my life. Sometimes, I...just want to get out of it. Not, like, stop living or anything. Just..live entirely differently than the way I am now."_

 _That got him to lift his head up._

 _"I know. Spoiled, rich gets-every-damn-solo- and-recital- nomination-she-ever wants, has-an-in-with-the-Philharmonic Iris Manson hates her life. Boo-hoo. Let her whine," her throat burned with pent-up tears. She hadn't even been drinking and she was losing it._

 _"I don't think that," he sat up fully. "All I think is: why? What happened to make you hate it so much? You always said the Philharmonic was your dream.."_

 _"Not a lie," she nodded. She was_ not _going to cry. She'd know the guy for…a month? This was getting_ way _too personal….And yet she kept talking._

 _"I still want it. Or, at least I want to want it again," she gave a weak shrug. "I want to love playing. I want to remember what its like to hear just_ music _in my head when I pick up my instrument. Not his voice."_

 _"Whose? Dr. Manson's?"_

 _She willed her tears to keep from falling. "Yeah."_

 _"Yeah. Got a couple of friends in his studio," Owen flopped down again. "Hear he's a hard-ass. Can't imagine growing up with him."_

No you can't, _she thought bitterly. "Yeah. Hard-ass," she said instead._

 _"So, not a fan of the Big Apple, huh? Thought you grew up in Hell's Kitchen."_

 _"I did. And, my childhood was wonderful. It's the rest that…" she shook her head. "I wanna leave the city. It's not mine anymore, I don't think. Everything I loved about it is gone." She couldn't have Matty back while Manson was around, couldn't have any of it back while he was around, so being so close—yet so far—from all the things she'd never have again…she was sick of it._

 _"So," a swig from the bottle, "where'd you go?"_

 _"Huh," she laughed. "I don't know. California, Canada, China….the moon. Anywhere." Just somewhere he'll leave me alone…_

 _Owen then proceeded to sing a really-off key version of "Fly Me to the Moon" which, of course, pissed off Iris's musicians ear. She thwacked him over the head. They spent other two hours just…existing. Another thing best friends can do, apparently. Pass hours in each other's presence without having to do anything. And then he'd taken her….home._

 _"You're late," Doctor Manson, of course, awake. He'd never just go to bed, always had to wait like a guard-dog to make sure she really did come home. She paused, tense and ready for him to start. Take the scolding like a champ, and you can go to bed._

 _"But, that is how studying music at the colligate level is like. I admire your adaption, Iris. I look forward to hearing how all this extra time sounds in your lessons."_

 _"Thank you, Sir."_

 _She dreamed that night Owen actually took her to the damn moon._

Now, in her office, she realized how much time had passed since that night. Her trip to the moon was never coming, and she knew it. But, she'd been given a way….to at least try and make a home out of what she'd lost. She had Matty back, at least. Assuming Russians didn't take _his_ head off.

"Just running isn't really realistic, Owen," she shrugged. "Just moving here was a pain on such short notice. I can't imagine just up and leaving."

He blinked, eyes so far off. She wondered if he were back in the boxing ring, if he were hoping to be back there. He looked at his lap, "You're right."

"Owen," she let out a shuddering breath. "You're scaring me."

"My employer…he's complicated. Needed the cash, and he paid. Didn't really know at what cost this job really came."

"Owen…"

"Iris, can you leave the city tonight?"

The air went out of her in one breath. "What?"

"The city….can you…."

"Why would I leave the city?"

He shook his head. "I tell, it's my head. Frickin Wesley probably has my suit bugged."

"Owen, if you're in trouble…"

"It's not me that's in trouble," he laughed, a bitter, grating sound.

That plucky undergrad talking about friendship was so, so far way.

His phone rang, severing the silence. It startled her, heart sputtering.

He looked at the caller ID. "Wesley. Of course it's Wesley," he muttered. "I really can't get away."

When he left, she went to Mr. Aldridge to canceled the rest of her lessons, and went straight to Matt's apartment.

* * *

He was getting ready to go out when she got there.

Claire was on his couch, scrolling through a flip phone. She looked up when Iris walked in, offering a smile as a greeting. Matt didn't offer much in a way of greeting, just continued outfitting himself in black. She really didn't expect much else.

"There are no numbers in this, no contacts," Claire said.

"It's a burner, like the one I use to talk to you," Matt agreed, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "It was buzzing. Did someone leave a message?"

"A text," Claire said. "A list of locations. Four of them. 47th and 12th, 48th and 9th, 42nd and 10th, 44th and 11th."

Matty reacted to the last one. "44th and 11th? That's where the Russians held that boy."

"Ian," Iris squeaked out the name. Matty paused, letting the emotion in that one word process, but moved on.

"These address? They're listing where the Russians are." He tossed his water bottle aside, going for his mask like it was more vital to him, more tied to his life.

"Frickin' Russians," Iris tried for humor. A piss-poor attempt, really.

"The hell did you get this?" Claire asked.

"Cop," Matty pulled on his gloves.

"I said go to the police, but.."

"Cop was working for Fisk. Killed a Russian for him right outside the precinct, and later he gets that list of addresses. I am betting I'll find Vladimir at one of them."

Matty headed for the stairwell that took his to his fire escape.

"What the hell are you doing?" Iris reached out for him. He dodged her hand.

"Don't start," he warned. Half-warned. There was a plea in there somewhere too.

"No, she has a point," Claire said. "Just, take a second. What exactly are you going to do?"

"Whatever it takes."

Iris guess his "devil voice" or whatever it was supposed to take over. But, something suggested he he wasn't willing to do… _that._ Cross the line of taking a life. She hoped to everything that he wouldn't, hadn't, ever gone that far. Because, Iris wasn't sure how much it would break her if he had. She didn't want to be pushed any further, for it to be that much harder to accept this.

"You know how that sounds right," Claire voiced Iris's exact thoughts.

Silence. Claire scrambled to fill it, because clearly no one wanted to deal with that unpleasantness.

"When we were on that roof," she whispered. "You told that Russian that you…hurt people because you enjoy it."

Iris's knees became putty for a minute. "What?"

"You said you didn't believe that," Matty said, emphatically. An assurance for Iris.

"I _can't_ believe that," Claire shook her head. She titled it to Iris. "She can't believe that either. Because, if we do…it means you're not the man we believe you to be."

"I need to be the man this city needs."

"Oh please, Batman," Iris snapped. All the humor was flat. Her voice was a crackle. This wasn't her brother. This _couldn't_ be her brother. A fleck of anger, boiling hot, started in her chest, exploded to a sunburst. "Get over yourself."

"Iris," Claire held up a hand. "She's right, though. That's not a reason…that's an excuse."

"What do you want me to do?" There was the devil. She wanted to rip it out, to let whatever the hell this was to do the fighting and just keep her brother. "Let them tear Hell's Kitchen apart?"

"Matty," wavery, teary. Pleading, pathetic. But she didn't care. She was appealing to the rationale side of him. "My friend Owen…he works for Fisk. He came to my office tonight. That's why I came over here. He implied…I don't know. I think something is about to go down in the city tonight."

He blew out a breath. "Then I have to go."

"No," she whispered. "You don't. You're not going to take down the Russian mob all by yourself in one night. Just…at least come up with a _plan._ "

"Matt," Claire stepped between them. Smart. Cool. She was a rock Iris needed. A piece of glue holding him together. "What you do is important. To so many people. I get that."

Patrick and Ian, she reminded herself. He'd saved Ian, put that family back together. That was why he did this. That was what he wanted to achieve. Iris desperately tried to cling to that.

"I just don't think," Claire muttered, "that I can let myself fall in love with someone whose…so damn close to becoming what he hates."

"You're right," was all Matt could say to that. "You shouldn't." A step towards the stairs. He was halfway up, his mask on, when he added, "I'm sorry, Iris."

The apology sent her sinking to the couch. "Go," she croaked out.

She heard his retreating footsteps, but the apartment when blind through her tears. Claire fell onto the couch beside her, silent. Probably crying too.

They sat there like that, Iris shivering. Claire was going to walk away, and Iris didn't blame her for a second. But, Iris? She'd fought too hard for this. To get Matty back. The Devil was a…complication, but Matty was a good man, she believed that. Had to believe that. He'd…find his balance. Find that line, learn to toe it properly.

She hoped.

* * *

She spend another thirty minutes at Matt's apartment, in silent solidarity with Claire, before she decided she couldn't take another night of waiting for her brother to come back. She decided she was going to help people in her own way and headed for Andy's, intended to….help someway. Buy her food. Lend an ear. Something, anything. She'd invited Claire, but the nurse declined. Probably had her own way of dealing with this.

A shame, really.

Iris really had liked Claire.

The oboist had herself pretty well put together when she found herself on the stairs to Andy's apartment—the elevator was out of service. Almost like everything was all okay. "Come in," Andy's voice chirped from behind the door.

"Iris!" she said when the younger woman came in.

The cheery, upbeat tone was really strange, for someone who was standing in an apartment that looked like a war zone. There holes smashed right into the drywall, dozens and dozens of mis-matched candles keeping the place lit. And on a ladder, his head poked through a wall in the ceiling…

"Patrick," Iris said.

He peeked down, smile on his face. "Oh, hello," he said. "I was just helping, seeing if there is anything I can do about the electricity in some of the units."

"You're an electrician," Iris said dumbly. Of course he was. Andy had _told_ her that…

He laughed, a hearty sound that reached right to her and shoved against the tight ball and angry and worry. A tiny, _tiny_ smile worked its way at the corners of her mouth. "Yes. Last time I checked, I was."

"How does it look?" Andy asked, coming up the ladder.

"Oh, it's a mess," Patrick frowned. "Whatever those guys Tully brought in did…yikes."

Andy tried to hide her disappointment with a bright smile. "Well, you've been at it for hours now. Elena, just across the hall, she made some food in here awhile ago. Told me to send you. You and Iris should hop and over and get a bite. We can worry about it when you have food in your stomachs."

"Andy, I haven't even done anything."

"Nonsense," Andy waved them off. "Elena would be give me an earful if she knew I didn't send you too, Iris. Now, shoo. And have a good time."

Andy turned to Iris, offering a weak shrug. A small smile. "I guess…we're heading across the hall."

"We are," was all Iris could say.

Elena was delighted when she answered the door, shuffling both Patrick and Iris to a table she had just up just off the kitchen. It was was set, candles in the center for both light and atmosphere. Iris was surprised to see Foggy and Claire already there, and they clearly seemed to be surprised by her.

"Hi, Iris," Karen said. "I didn't know you were here."

"I, um, came by to see if Andy needed any help. She sent us over to…" when Iris turned around, Elena was gone. "Where…"

Karen laughed, gesturing to the two empty seats Elena had pulled up. "Looks like this is a _double_ date now."

"A double date," Iris sputtered, looking at Patrick.

"Well, in that case," he pulled out a chair, gesturing to her. "Madam?"

"Well, your date is more gentlemanly than mine," Karen quipped. As if she were having some sort of out-of-body experience, Iris actually sat down. Patrick took the seat right beside her.

"I resent that," Foggy held up his fork. "I will have you know my chivalry is known far and wide throughout Hell's Kitchen. How dare you challenge my honor in front of my fair lady, Mr…"

Patrick held his hands up in surrender. "Patrick Kent. And I did not mean to challenge your honor, I assure you, Mr…"

"Foggy Nelson," he held out a hand. "This is Karen Page."

"How do you know Iris, Patrick?"

Iris's toes curled inside her shoes at the question. "We…" she began.

"I am a regular at the diner where she works," so casual, so easy. And no questions asked. He simply grabbed Iris's plate, scooping a helping of whatever delightfully smelling thing Elena had made. "Andy's a friend too. I am an electrician, so I came to see if I could lend my services. I've been working my way through apartments, trying to see what I can do."

"Same here," Karen nodded. "It's awful really, what Tully is doing to these people. They're so kind, they don't deserve any of this."

"Unfortunately," Patrick served himself, "bad things tend to happen to kind people. The world is cruel that way, sometimes." He frowned. "But good things can happen was well. Pleasant surprises, unexpectedly good people will just…come your way when you need it most." Iris could have sworn he cast a sidelong glance at her. She took her first bite, pretending not to notice.

"I hope Nelson and Murdock can help," Karen said. "You kicked ass at Landman and Zack, Foggy."

"Murdock," Patrick set down his fork. "Any relation to Battlin' Jack Murdock?"

Iris choked.

"Yeah," Foggy eyed her. This time curious, not suspicious. "My business partner, Matt, is his son. Iris is Matt's sister."

"You told me your dad was a boxer," he turned to her, eyes soft. Screaming of the full story of their meeting, the fragments of their short history she and only she knew about. "Iris Murdock."

"Well, Foggy Nelson would like the salt, so could you pass it?"

"Yeah," Patrick shook himself out. Iris looked at Foggy, surprised to find…not, sympathy really. But a softness. Respect that the loss of Matt's father was her loss too. A tiny truce.

Iris secretly wondered if Patrick made the connection. She decided now was not a good time to ask. She didn't want to think about The Mask. So she picked up her fork. And ate. And socialized.

And found herself actually having fun.

Whatever truce Foggy had secretly called for the sake of the "date" was boding quite well, making for a evening full of silly stories. Banter.

"…and Matt bangs his cane around and says, 'Am I in the right room?'" Foggy was putting up the finishing touches on a tale from his college days, stories Iris had lapped up like water in a desert. Thing she'd missed. Things she'd so desperate wanted to be a part of.

Karen let out a laugh. "Where did you put his furniture?" half-scolding, but mostly amused.

"Dorm across the hall," Foggy shrugged.

"Wish I would have known you guys back then," Karen set down her glass of water.

"Nope. No," Foggy assured. "Much better off knowing us now. We have our own practice, I'm more dashing then I was in my awkward college days."

"Oh, yeah? Gonna need photographic proof of that," Karen said.

"Oh, get me in on that," Iris threw in.

"Patrick, as my fellow man," Foggy reached across the table. "Please, get me out of this whole."

"I've been throwing you ropes all night, friend," the man in question snorted. "I'm afraid this one is on you."

"Now whose the less gentlemanly one?" Foggy threw his hands up at the "victory."

"So, what about college-Iris and college-Karen?" Patrick grinned around his glass.

"Oh no," Iris fervently shook her head. "We are not going there." Her tone was light, suggesting a jab, but that tread a line way too thin. The night had been going so well. She'd actually been able to repress her worry over Matt. Somewhat. A little. It had been at least a minute since it had clawed at her. Foggy blinked at her, obviously seeing right through. Patrick caught on to.

"At least tell me where you went?" the latter attempted to salvage the conversation.

"Manhattan School of Music." Safe enough.

"You and Matt must have liked going to school so relatively close."

Iris almost sprayed her water all over Foggy. A hilarious outcome as that may have been, she saved herself last minute. Karen stiffed. Foggy drew his shoulders back, watching Iris like a hawk for her answer to this question.

"Matt and I…" Iris set her glass down. "We, um. When I was in college, Matty and I weren't exactly…speaking. I was adopted separately from him. I…"

"Iris, I am so sorry. I didn't…"

"It's…okay." That stupid hollow ache was back. Iris set down her glass, maybe a little too loudly. "Okay, so new topic. Worst person you've ever dated. Go."

"Marci," Foggy was the first to cut in, though he was still watching Iris. Curious. "Definitely Marci."

"Meat grinder in a pencil skirt," Karen agreed.

"You've met this infamous Marci?" Iris raised her brows. Conversation saved.

"Oh, yeah. Works at Landman and Zack. One of Tully's lawyers. Talons were well hidden by her fancy heels and her salon blowout hid the horns, but it was easy to have her pegged as soon as she opened her mouth," Karen shrugged.

"Yikes," Iris laughed. "Real keeper, Foggy."

"Well, hey, it's your brother that was always getting involved with the wrong girl. Rubbed off on me, I guess."

Banter as it was, it was civil. Not cutting.

Karen titled her head a little. "Matt, um, dates a lot?"

A quietness, less oppressive than before, settled over the table again.

"Well," Foggy shrugged, "I wouldn't call it 'dating.' Never been with a girl for more than a month or two."

"That's kind of sad," Karen said quietly.

"On the plus side," Foggy blurted. "He gets to touch a lot of pretty girls."

Karen sputtered.

"Faces," Iris assured. "Foggy means faces. It's how he tells what they look like."

"I mean, so he tells the ladies," he took her rope. The only thank you she was probably going to get. "Although he always seems to know which ones are hot, even before he puts his grubbily little mitts on them."

Karen politely laughed before, "Iris, did Matt…I mean, were we separated before…"

Iris took a deep breath. "Matt's seen my face. Well, the eleven-year-old version of it. That's how old I was when…" No. No. Every time she thought she was away from this slippery slope, there was again. She refused to fall down it. "My only regret is Matt will forever remember the hideous buck teeth I had. I didn't get my braces until I was thirteen. Which, by the way, made oboe hell for a while. Wind instrumentalists nightmare, braces."

"Does he know what you look like, Foggy?" Karen started playing with her food.

"Uh," Foggy coughed. "He's got a rough idea. I only ever let him put his hand on my face once. Cause…weird. I forever wanted him to think I looked like the lovechild of George Clooney and Channing Tatum, but I caved."

"Well, _I_ think you look….sort of like the lovechild of George Clooney and Channing Tatum," Patrick offered.

"You're too kind," Foggy laughed, "but, I like you enough. You don't have to lie to get in my good graces."

Karen was silent, staring at her plate. Iris picked up on the subtle signal. "Hey, I am gonna get started on these dishes. You got the water running right, Foggy?"

"Yeah," he blinked. "Yeah."

"Good. Come on, Patrick. I could use a hand."

"Of course," he picked up his dish. Karen slid him hers.

When Iris and Patrick were in the kitchen, he leaned against the sink, letting out a deep sigh as she dropped in the dirty dishes. "I'm not a very good date, am I? I'm really sorry I brought up the college thing. I…"

"You didn't know," Iris offered him a genuine smile. He wasn't the first to bring it all up, and it wasn't his fault anyway. Her mess was her problem. She turned on the sink, putting soap on the first dish.

"You know," he grabbed a rag and another plate. His voice was low. "Before I picked up on the context clues that your brother is blind, I actually thought he might be The Mask."

Iris really didn't mean to show it all over her stupid face, but she'd had a long night of pretending. She was getting tired of it Her rag stopped. Patrick blinked, looking like he wanted to question how that worked. He didn't. "Oh…"

He set down his dish, turning to her. "I won't tell, I promise. He saved Ian. I'll protect his secret with everything I have. He does good, for the city."

Iris started on the dish again. Yeah, he does a lot of good for the city. Just not himself.

"I, um, wouldn't have gotten through that night with Ian without you," he added. "I never got to properly thank you for…keeping me sane."

"You're helping keep me sane tonight," Iris shrugged. "So, I guess this is mutually beneficial relationship after all."

He looked ready to say more, when the explosion rocked the apartment. The windows shattered, glass clattering and Foggy and Karen's screams following after.

 _"Shit."_ Iris let the dish clatter to the floor, as she rushed out the kitchen. Her brother's friends were lying on the floor amongst debris, but Foggy was on his feet, Karen half-way to being there herself.

"Everyone okay?" Patrick asked.

"Andy," Iris muttered weakly. "Andy…."

"I'm right here," the older woman's voice came, two figures emerging from the dust. Andy was supporting Elena, who was muttering frantically in Spanish. And from the latter's head. Blood, a trail of it.

"We gotta stop the bleeding," Karen sputtered.

Then the second explosion came. Iris yelped, nausea gripping at her insides. Owen had been _so afraid._ He'd asked if she'd leave the city….

Matty was out in this.

She collapsed to her knees and threw up her dinner.

"Iris," Patrick kneeled beside her, the second blast finally trailing off.

"You okay?" Foggy came into her vision, carefully side-stepping around the mess.

All she could manage was a weak nod.

"Karen, you stay here with them. Patrick, you okay to come with me?"

"Where are you going?" Karen asked, voice shaky. Seized by terror. Iris could freaking relate.

"To see if anyone else needs help. We'll be right back," Foggy said, running from the apartment. Patrick followed.

"Foggy," Karen whispered.

Iris felt utterly useless, sitting there while she wasn't even the one hurt. But all she could think about was Matty, out there in the thick of it. Right into a trap. Again. A trap…set by Fisk. She'd tried to warn him. And he'd gone anyway.

She threw up again, her whole body feeling like it was collapsing in on herself. All she could hear, smell, see, _taste_ the world on fire just beyond the window.

* * *

 **This was heartbreaking to write, for some reason.**

 **Iris and Matty never can catch a break, can they?**

 **Also, my Owen and Patrick babies. I just want to scoop them up.**

 **I'm just a proud mom of all my OCs.**

 _ **Anyway,**_ **hope you enjoyed.**

 **I am really excited cause things are going to start really picking up from here.**

 **I work at a summer camp, as I side note. So...um...updates are going to be interesting.**

 **But, I'll keep them coming as best they can.**

 **Until next time**

 **-Moonlit**


	6. Facing Demons

**So, my camp job is underway.**

 **Staff training has been a BEAR.**

 **And may or may not have involved literal bears.**

 **Buutt, I wrote on my breaks.**

 **We'll see once sessions kick into gear, but for now here is my next chapter.**

* * *

 _Facing Demons_

The hospital was pandemonium, plain and simple.

Iris found herself clinging on Patrick's arm as they walked into the building, a blast of cool wind hitting her in the face as they passed through the double doors. Foggy and Karen were supporting Elena between them, Iris and Patrick following close behind. Andy had stayed behind to help calm the residents of her building, asking for updates on Elena as the night went on.

A TV droned in the distance, covering the explosions. People were shouting and milling around the room, trying to get answers. Trying to get help. Iris shrunk closer to Patrick's side.

"Hey," Foggy, bless him, was clearly fine taking charge in the situation. "We need help. I've got an elderly woman over here and she's bleeding bad." Hospital personnel zipped by, barely having the curtsey to miss the rag-tag group in their paths.

"Where's she hurt?"

The voice echoing down the hall made Iris stop on a dime, her breath hitching as Claire jogged up to them in her street clothes. She stopped for only a fraction of a second, making fleeting eye-contact with Iris, before turning to Foggy.

"You a nurse?" Karen asked.

"Yeah," Claire gently removed the rag Karen was using to stay the bleeding. "Pretty bad laceration." She guided Elena out of Karen's care, speaking in Spanish to try and keep the woman calm, alert.

"What's her name?" Claire looked right over Foggy and Karen's heads, right to Iris.

"Elena Cardenas," Iris said.

"I'll take good care of her," Claire assured, already turning her attention to Elena, guiding her back.

"We'll wait here for you, Mrs. C!" Foggy called after them.

"She's gonna be fine," Iris assured both of them. She felt like she was waking up from a dream, her brain submerged in a pit of molasses. She looked at the TV, which was showing an image of a tall brownstone, flames licking out of the windows. Her grip on Patrick's arm went slack. "Look at this."

"We'd better call Matt. Make sure he's okay," Foggy said, Iris whipping her head around at the name. Matt wouldn't answer, not his regular phone at least. But the burner…

Lord, she hoped he'd answer the burner. That he was alive. She couldn't believe she was here again, begging, praying. _Waiting._

"I'll call him," Iris found herself saying.

Foggy gave her a look, already fishing his phone from his side pocket.

"Foggy," Karen put a hand on his shoulder. "I think you're…bleeding."

"Oh," Foggy said numbly, pulling his suit jacket aside. A splotch of scarlet, like a gaint inkblot, was soaking through the fabric. "That explains it."

"Explains what?" Karen asked.

"The stabbing pain in my side." With that, whatever adrenaline had gotten him to this point let go, and his hand went right to the side of the injury.

"Shit, Foggy," Iris gasped, jumping to him. She and Karen led him to the closet chair, lowering him gently. His breathing had gone ragged, shallow. His face a little pale.

"Wait here," Karen set down her purse. "I'll go find somebody, okay?"

"Yeah…I'll just…" he waved his free hand in an all-encompassing gesture.

"I'm sorry, Foggy," Iris said lamely, eyes stinging with tears. Sorry for what, she wasn't really sure.

"Could you," he said through raspy breaths, "call Matt? See if he's okay?"

She nodded, a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah." She got out her cell, instantly thinking of a way to spin it so he was out of earshot. "It's a little noisy in here, so I'm gonna take it somewhere quieter," she was getting so good at lying lately. "Patrick, could you…"

"Yeah," he came to life, claiming the seat beside her brother's friend.

Iris walked down the hall, scrolling through her contacts for the burner's number. She was nearly there when a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her through the hall and out into a stairwell. Iris almost panicked, until she realized it was Claire.

"Please tell me this isn't your way of dealing with the Russians," she was scolding. The door slammed behind her. So, Matty had called Claire. Her stomach clenched, knowing what that usually meant.

Iris strained to her on the other line.

" _No. Wasn't me,"_ Matty sounded fine. Unhurt. Not bleeding to death. One of the millions of knots in Iris's stomach united. It allowed her to remember how pissed she was. _"But, I don't think you'll have to worry about them anymore."_ She holding out a hand, silently asking for the phone. The nurse held up a single finger. One minute.

"You call just to tell me that?" Claire countered.

" _No, I need your help. I found someone who has intel on what I've been looking for, but he's been shot."_

Another knot gave way. Matty's not hurt. He's alive, he's fine. She was so _mad_ she had to go through this again.

"So call 911," Claire snapped.

" _Can't. It's the police that shot him. Thinking they'd like a crack at finishing the job."_

She sighed. "Want me to come out to you? In all of this?"

"No, I want you to walk me through stabilizing him."

She drew a deep, long suffering sigh "I am gonna need a minute to get emotionally ready for this crap," Claire shoved the phone in Iris's direction.

"Matty?" Iris cleaved to the thing like a life-line, tears snapping her voice in half. He was fine. He wasn't dead.

She was going to kill him.

" _Iris? You're with Claire?"_

"Um," another shaky breath. "Yeah. I'm at the hospital."

" _What?"_

Yeah. That did sound bad.

"It's not me. I'm not hurt," she said. "It's…Elena, in the explosion. She hit her head. Foggy's hurt too."

" _You were with Foggy?"_ he asked. _"Is Karen with you? Is everyone okay?"_

"They're gonna see Foggy soon. Karen's fine. I'm fine. Worried about your stupid self-depreciating ass, but fine."

" _I'm fine too, Iris."_ So, he was intuitive enough to hear the unspoken question in her voice.

"Good damn thing," she said. "Hate to have to kick your ass."

" _Iris, I…"_

"If you say 'I'm sorry' one more time, I am going to throw this damn phone down the stairwell and you won't get to stabilize your stupid criminal. Just…don't die. We'll figure the….other shit out when you get home." More stupid tears. _You'd better come home._

 _"Give me to Claire,"_ was all he said.

She handed the cell back, mouthing a 'thank you' to the nurse before slipping back into the chaos of the hospital. She leaned against the stairwell door, letting out a little blubbery yelp. She slapped her hand over her mouth, trying to calm herself. She was sure she was going to throw up again, too many conflicting emotions clawing their way through her innards.

"Iris. I saw that nurse take you to the stairwell," Patrick was in full view, blurry in her vision for some reason. He put his hands on her forearms. "Iris?" Oh, he was blurry because she was crying. She choked a little.

"Is he okay? Did you get a hold of Matty? Are you okay?"

"H-He's.." she shuddered, hyperventilating. "Y-yeah he's f-f-fine….he….he.."

"Iris," he said calmly. "Look at me."

A she blinked, eyes wet with fat tears. "What?"

"Look at me," he repeated. She did. His face was a bit sweaty, short curls messy, but his expression was placid. His chest was rising and fall evenly, which made Iris keenly aware of how rapidly her own breathing was. "I need you to _breathe._ "

She nodded, using his even keel respiration for a point of reference. It took her a minute, but soon actual oxygen was going into her body. The world slid reluctantly into place. "There. Good," he said. "That's better."

"Are you…using your parent voice on me?" she laughed.

"Force of habit," he shrugged. "It working?"

She snorted, "Keep talking."

"They took Foggy back already," he said. She noticed his hands were still on her arms. She said nothing. She…sort of hoped he'd keep them there. "Karen's with him. He said to bring you back when you done. I think he's worried about Matt."

"He's has good reason," Iris shoved down the bite of anger. "Take me to Foggy."

* * *

They were finishing stitching him up when Iris and Patrick got there. He'd been changed out of bloody clothes and into a gown. "Did you…?" he asked, over the head of the nurse hooking him up to monitors.

"Yeah," Iris said. "Got ahold of him. He's fine. Worried about you. But, I told him you're too much of a stubborn ass to let a little bleeding kill you, so he's calmed down."

"Funny," Foggy rolled his eyes. The nurse said something about a doctor coming by for a last check-up and an over night stay, then scampered off to her next patient, leaving the quartet to their evening.

"Thanks, Iris," he said.

She shrugged. "No problem."

"You've been crying," he noted.

"Very astute, Counselor." There was a chair by his bed. She fell into it. Karen took the one beside her. Patrick lingered at the foot of the bed.

"I was just….scared shitless," Iris admitted.

"Matt's a blind guy in a war zone," Karen offered. "We were all worried."

He worried his friends sick. He worried her sick. She was trying so, _so_ hard not to resent him for it. _He helps people,_ she kept telling herself. Kept looking at Patrick to remind herself of the reasons her brother felt the need to do this.

"The important thing," Patrick said, "is that we're all safe."

"Ian?" Iris muttered.

"Is at my sister's," he grabbed her hand. "I called her while you were on the phone with Matt. Everyone's okay. Ian's spending the night with her and my brother-in-law."

"I'm going to go downstairs," Karen said resolutely, picking up her purse. "Check on Elena."

Patrick checked the time on his phone. He gave Iris's hand an assuring squeeze. "It's close Ian's bedtime. I'm gonna call him, say goodnight."

The two made an exit, leaving Iris alone with Foggy. To sit with their truce at dinner, the crazy events of the night. The _staring_ She wondered what Matt had told him, if anything, about what she'd admitted. Of what she'd been through with Dr. Manson.

"Manhattan School of Music," he said. "Awfully close to Columbia University, huh?"

The accusation wasn't really harsh, not like their first meeting, but even so. She stood up, drawing the privacy curtains closed. He raised an eyebrow at her as she fell back into her chair, interlocking her hands and resting her chin on top of them.

"I wore the wrong shoes to your graduation," she murmured. Foggy sucked in a breath, searching her face. "They pinched my feet. A lot. And that speaker. _Yikes._ That Professor Earlton really thought he was funny, didn't he?"

"You were there?"

Iris nodded, "Yep. I kept looking for him, you know. I had this whole plan. I was gonna track him after. Take him out to coffee, explain the whole situation. I was going to claw my way back to my old life. I was in the crowd, and then there was this hand on my arm." She could feel the phantom grip on her forearm.

His voice, hissing in her ear, "Iris, you come with me. _Now._ "

Her blood going cold as she followed him away from the ceremony without anymore prompting.

"I was in public. He couldn't have moved me without making a scene. I could have gotten him to let me stay. But after…" Iris shook her head. "I was screwed anyway. I could have been braver. I was _so close_."

"Did he…?"

"No," Iris shook her head. "He never laid a hand on me. But there are other ways to have a grip of fear on someone."

Foggy said nothing, probably didn't know _what_ to say, so she kept going.

"After I snuck on a plane to get to my brother's law school graduation…it was…right. I remember. My best friend from undergrad used to make me these cheesy little dioramas out of oboe reeds. Dr. Manson knew those silly things meant a lot to me, especially after we moved and he regulated my contact with Owen. He didn't go to grad school, his mother had cancer so he couldn't afford it, so he got an office job to temporarily pay the bills. He planned to go back, but he got a job at a local gym, teaching boxing classes, just to pay the bills." The tears Patrick had helped her stave off were threating to fall again. "Anyway, Manson brought a few of my favorites with him to New York when he followed me up. Destroyed them all right in front of me."

"Iris…"

"That was just one of many things," she couldn't stop herself now. "The first thing he ever destroyed of mine was my first clarinet. My dad has saved for so long, worked his ass off, to get me that thing. Got it at a pawn shop, and it was there under our Christmas tree. We got one gift a year, me and Matty. You would have thought I got the crown jewels when I opened it. My dad's face lit up when he saw how happy it me made. Wasn't the greatest as far as instruments go, but hell I loved it. Manson accused me of taking better care of it than my oboe, my primary instrument and one _he'd_ bought for me. But I never thought….One night, after a pretty epic fight over me wanting to take a practice break, he went into my bedroom and found my clarinet. He broke it over his knee and told me to keep practicing. So, I kept practicing."

"Matt was torn up when you weren't there," Foggy said. "Couldn't get him to open up about what the heck was wrong. I jokingly—well, half jokingly—asked if it was a girl. He said yes. There was this ex of his, some Greek girl…..never mind. It was believable. I never questioned it."

"You looked out for him," Iris leaned back in her chair. "And he looked out for you. You were…you were the family I couldn't be. And, for that, I can't thank you enough."

Foggy was quiet for a moment, one that stretched on and on. The silence, the possibilities of what he would say when he finally spoke, was filled with uneasy anticipation. Her hands grabbed fist-fulls of her dress pants.

"Sorry your adopted dad was an a-hole," he finally declared.

Iris choked on a laugh, one that pushed open the last of the floodgates. She didn't bother trying to keep up appearances. Screw that. Her night had been too long.

A tissue landed in her hand, and she realized it was Foggy who placed it there. "Have you told Matt, what the dirt-bag was like?"

"He has a…vague idea," Iris weakly shrugged. "I'm not ready to go over every depressing detail yet. He and I are…still working through some shit. But we're trying."

"He's happy you're back," Foggy said. "I know him well enough for that to be obvious. Please, tell him sooner than later. He deserves some good, after the bum rap life's given him. I know he hates pity, but…the guys my best friend, I can't say all he's been through hasn't affected me. The suck, it's painful. So, when something that is…not suck comes along…"

"I'm glad I've graduated from Sister-We-Don't-Discuss to Sister-Who-Is-Not-Suck."

He snorted. "Don't push your luck, Murdock. I may be looped out on pain meds, but I'm not doped enough to give up a quality nickname." He looked at his lap. "But…yeah. I'd put you in the category of 'not suck'."

"Hey, they said Elena is going to be fine. She's gotten stitches and she's resting. They're keeping her over night, since travel is a nightmare," Karen pulled back the curtain, letting it fall closed again. Her eyes lingered on Iris's tear-streaked face. "Everything okay here?"

"The night's just hitting her," Foggy immediately came to the rescue. Iris looked over at him, stunned when she realized she might have just acquired an ally in her brother's friend. The protectiveness he so obviously held for Matt was slowly inching outward toward someone else Matt cared for. Iris was experiencing the phenomenon as well. "She just needed a minute."

"Can't blame you there," Karen took the seat beside Iris. "But…we're here, we're okay. Matt's okay. You're okay. We're all okay. So, we can all relax. Or…try to." Iris offered a half-smile.

"Some date, huh?" Foggy snorted.

"I've actually had worse," Karen gave him a tiny smile.

Patrick returned to the group then, a small plastic bag from the hospital gift shop in his hands. He fished out a small deck of cards. "Ian's on his way to bed. And, seeing as we're going to be here until they figure whatever this is out, I suggest we play some card games. The date's not technically over."

"See?" Karen grinned. "Still salvageable."

"Deal us in," Foggy pulled the tray table over his bed.

* * *

They played whatever mindless games came to mind, passing the hours in numb denial of the destruction going on outside. Jo called at one point, making sure that Iris was okay, but the conversation ended quickly. The TV was on, covering the event, but the sound was off, far away. The quartet tried to distract themselves, to pick up he easy banter from Elena's apartment. But it was hard with images of the city's destruction in their periphery.

Eventually they gave up, Karen dozing off under her jacket, Foggy half-asleep in his bed. Iris found her eyelids heavy, her head lolled against Patrick's shoulder. She'd realized what she'd done as soon as she'd done it, but she found herself unable to move. Or unwilling to move. Patrick didn't protest.

She was in a strange hazy twilight between sleeping and waking when she heard Foggy mutter, "Turn it up."

Karen's breathing picked up and she sat up in her chair, "What?"

"The TV. Turn it up. I wanna hear this."

Karen grabbed the remote, the news anchor's voice gradually creeping to clarity. _"This is taken just moments after the explosions that stunned Hell's Kitchen earlier tonight, pulled from a security camera. And authorities believe this man is responsible for the bombings, possibly as part of an ongoing feud with the Russian mob."_

Iris went upright in less than second, the picture in the grainy video bringing bile to the back of her throat. Patrick snapped to life as well, sucking in a deep breath. Matty was on screen, attack cops, _actual badge-wearing cops,_ all devil-y. Mercilessly.

"Oh shit," she hissed under her breath.

"That's the guy," Karen stood up. "That's the guy who saved my life."

 _"The same man suspected of having just shot and killed the three police officers.."_

The words "shot and killed" sent ice through Iris's veins.

"This guy?" Foggy whistled. "You're lucky he didn't kill you."

"He wouldn't have killed Karen," Iris blurted without thinking.

Foggy gave her a sidelong look, but chose to ignore the outburst.

"I don't understand why he would do something like this," Karen shook her head. "He just didn't seem like….I don't know…."

"General rule," Foggy said. "Guys who wear masks have something to hide. And it usually ain't good."

"We don't know the full story," Patrick insisted.

"I don't know," Foggy shook his head. "Pretty hard to justify what that video just showed us."

"The Mask saved my son," Patrick folded his arms. Iris went rigid at his side, terrified of what he'd say next.

Karen turned on him, eyes wide. "What?"

"The Russians, they took my son. I thought…it was one of the worst nights of my life….almost," he gave Iris a subtle glance, just out of the corner of his eye. "But, then this man in a mask came into my townhouse, carrying Ian. He got to my son before the Russians could…"

Karen had closed the distance between them, kneeling on the floor before his chair. "Patrick, I…"

"It's just….hard to believe The Mask would do something like this. I have to believe there is information we don't know yet."

"I'm…going to get a coffee. Get some air," Iris pushed herself to her feet. She felt detached from her own body, like she was floating outside of it, guiding an empty shell. She had to get out, get free. To think.

Patrick may have been sure Matt would never do something like this, but…she'd seen more of what The Mask. She wished that she could be so confident, that she could say without a doubt her brother would never go to such extremes but…

She'd come face to face with the devil, and he terrified her.

Patrick made a move to come follow her, but she held up a hand, silently asking him to stay. He relaxed back into his seat, and let her go.

She intended to find Claire, but the nurse was obviously too busy to be found. So, Iris made good on the lie and swung by the cafeteria to get herself some coffee. She carried the cup outside, the chilly air outside littered with the scent of smoke and the sound of sirens. And Matty…somewhere out in this…attacking cops…possibly killing cops…

She didn't want to—couldn't want to—believe that about Matty. The sweet, scrappy kid who came home with a spilt lip and black eye because he tried to beat up kids terrorizing a stray cat. But, that kid, the one Iris knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, had been taken by years about. Something along the way had twisted that protective nature and made it into….

Her thought was cut off when a cold hand grabbed her arm. Memories of Dr. Manson finding her at the graduation seized her brain, and she went rigid at the touch. She barely had time to make a noise before the stranger slammed a cloth over her mouth. A sickly sweet smell hit her full-force. She held her breath, thrashing against the phantom grip with all her might, but it wouldn't yield. Her lungs began to burn, the struggle taking the fight out of her. Air rushed through her lungs, desperate and hungry and unaware of the danger it was letting int. The world slipped right through her fingers, a tidal wave of numbness flooded her bloodstream, melting her joints and muscles into putty.

The last sensation she felt before eclipsing into darkness was sheer and utter terror.

* * *

She came to with her senses going haywire. She was vaguely aware of metal walls and a cold floor, a large dark space illuminated only by a single lantern. A shipping container? A distant voice muttering words she couldn't even begin to understand. Rope dug into the skin of her hands and feet, cutting and bruising. A shuddering gasp pushed its way past her lips, and the voice stopped. Wild, terrified eyes were the first thing she saw when the man stumbled into the light.

He kneeled before her, grabbing her hair and titling her head to force her to meet his eyes. "What you know?" he demanded in fragmented English, the Russian accent strong and heavy. Iris's terrified, shallow breathing pinged against the boundaries of the containers.

"I don't…" she began, but cold metal on her throat cut her off. The presence of the knife rang of the night the Russians took Ian.

"Man in mask, you know. Spent night with man whose son we took."

"I…" she didn't dare say more, fearful of the knife's constant presence.

"Vladimir wanted me to tail you. I've been watching you. Know you had contract with Fisk. You and Mask, work for him."

"I played for a _date_ ," Iris stammered out. "I'm a _musician_. I don't know anything about…"

"I lost contact, knew you would know…"

This was nothing more than a scared, low-level member of the Russian's outfit. Sent off to chase a woman who might be just another dead-end. A job he'd performed with unwavering loyalty. And, he was scared. His whole outfit was blown to shit and he was grappling for a foothold, for answers. And his terror might be the thing that got Iris killed.

"I don't know anything," Iris insisted, which was mostly the truth. These explosions were over _her_ head too. "Please, I…"

The knife came off her throat, a blissful second of relief, until the blade was sunk into her side. Pain exploded from the point of entry, a coppery odor souring the air. Warm, sticky blood—her blood—pooled on her side when the Russian yanked the knife away. "What you know?" he repeated. "Next, your tongue comes out."

"Well then….I wouldn't be able to….tell you, would I...Asshole?" Iris sputtered, desperately fighting to hold onto consciousness. She wasn't really sure how Matty could solider on like nothing was wrong when he got stabbed because her side was on _fire._

The Russian screamed, grabbing her by her collar. "What. You. Know?"

Light, faint and artificial, cut through the shipping container and then a loud bang. Iris squealed, covering her ears at the sudden noise, and then the Russian fell at her feet. For a world-haunting moment, she thought somehow Matty had found her, been protecting her this whole time, but then she saw a different face came into view.

"Iris," Owen tossed the gun aside. He wasn't wearing his suit but instead a hoodie and sweatpants. Like their days in the gym, telling each other secrets. She was hallucinating, she had to be.

"Owen," her voice was paper-thin.

The hallucination shrugged off his hoodie, pushing it against Iris's bleeding side. "You need a hospital," he said.

She shivered, her silent agreement with that statement. "Thought I knew…"

"I know. That Russian was probably suspicious with one of Fisk's men tailing you too."

"Tailed me?" Iris accused. "You" was supposed to be in there somewhere. Owen got the picture.

"I know that sounds bad, but I had to make sure you were safe. The way you reacted after the date, I had to make sure you haven't been digging in places where you can get killed. So, I've been keeping tabs on you. Fisk is only having a few men on him tonight, the rest of us were supposed to lay low. With the explosions happening, ever since I left your office...I've been…keeping an eye on you from afar. Making sure you didn't get hurt."

"Creepy," she snorted.

He didn't deny that. "Tell me something, Iris. How _does_ a blind man like your brother do all the crazy shit he does?"

Iris tried to wiggle away, but he held her firm. "Relax. Wesley doesn't know. Fisk doesn't either. Hell, Fisk actually thinks I'm falling in love, and all this shit with Vanessa is making him soft to it. I think he might actually…want me to end up happy."

She only managed a few blinks and a weak cough.

"Lies are easier when they are partially true," Owen shrugged.

"…Matty?" there was a full sentence in there, a question, but the world was going fuzzy and speech was no longer on her current list of skills.

"No, I'm not going to tell Fisk about him," Owen said. Bless him. Even after years apart, he could still speak her language. "Fisk did all this tonight, you know. He's scared of The Mask. Wants the Russians and Mask to take each other out, because deep down he thinks they might have the power to destroy him."

"And you?"

"I hope to everything your brother can put Fisk in his place," Owen muttered. "That's why I haven't said anything. I knew Fisk was…into some less-than-noble shit, but these explosions, pinning all this shit on The Mask…"

"Not Matty," Iris's relief was dizzying. Or maybe that was the blood loss.

"No, your brother was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like Fisk wanted him to be. And you," his eyes traveled down to his sweatshirt, shoved against the gaping hole in her side. The old thing was soaked through with Iris's blood. "Iris, people who go after Fisk…this is what happens. Promise me you are going to stay away from him."

"Can't promise," she shuddered. The world was going black around the edges. "Matty is stupid. So I have to be….stupid to keep him from dying."

"Let's just hope you don't get killed in the crossfire," Owen said.

Iris shivered in agreement, grabbing at his shirt. "Claire Temple," was the last thing she said before plunging head-first into the blackness that awaited her.

* * *

She woke up in a sterile room, reeking of antiseptic and illuminated by pale golden rays of early morning light. She was wrestled under itchy sheets, a paper-thin gown replacing her clothes. She was pretty sure she was on some sort of drugs, because the world was just the right type of hazy for it. She felt her side, a constant pulse of fire, but she found she didn't really…care all that much it was hurting. Not with the world itself rocking her back and forth like a mother rocks an infant.

Matty was in a chair right by the bed, hunched over and head lowered. Asleep, maybe? Probably just dazed out, because he looked _really_ uncomfortable. "You up?" she whispered.

He startled for a second, hands white-knuckle as his senses reached out, reading "hospital." But then he relaxed, orienting himself. "Iris. You're awake."

"Unfortunately," she shifted around, her side shouting in protest.

"Don't move too much," he reached out, a hand on her arm, silently asking her to keep still. "You were stabbed."

"Really? I thought I just pulled a muscle and passed out doing Pilates."

He snorted. "You're a real pain."

"Payback," she shrugged.

"Claire patched you up. Called me on the burner. I got here as soon as I could."

"What'd she tell you about what happened?"

"That a Russian trying to figure out what happened grabbed you, and that a guy brought you in. A guy that wasn't keen on telling Claire who he was."

"Sounds familiar."

"Iris…"

"He won't hurt me," she shook her head. "In fact, he may even be a help to you. He works for Fisk."

Matty blew out a breath, sounding like an agitated horse. "Works for Fisk?"

"Ms. Murdock?" an unfamiliar nurse peeked her head in the door, ending the conversation before it could escalate. "There's a visitor for you."

"Show them in," Iris said without hesitation, not really having the energy to get into it with Matty again. She'd take any distraction she could get.

Her savior was Patrick, bearing a bouquet of irises. When he saw Matty, his smile melted, shaping into an uneasy frown. "Patrick, hi," she said.

"Patrick," Matt's voice was untenable, posture guarded. What had they said to each other while Iris was out?

"I heard you were attacked outside the hospital. Some ass-hole with a knife," Patrick came and set the flowers on her tray table. The lie that had been fed to anyone out of the loop, probably. "Foggy and Karen are worried too, but Matt's been keeping us up-to-date?"

"How is Foggy? Elena?" Iris smiled at the gift, fingering the velvety petals.

"Both fine. Both sent home an hour ago. Andy is looking after Elena, Karen's been keeping vigil with Foggy while Matt's been here."

"Thank you," Iris said. "For the flowers. They're lovely."

Patrick's only response was a warm smile, an expression that was almost…shy.

"I actually have to get home to Ian," he said. "But, I'm just really glad you're okay. When you went missing, you kind of scared the shit out of all of us."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Matt's voice was a near-growl.

Patrick shifted uncomfortably. "I should…Uh, Take care. I, um, gave Karen and Foggy my number. You can get it off of one of them."

"I will," she nodded.

"So he knows?" Matty asked when Patrick had gone. She was trying to read into the layers of that question. She was too tired to be successful at it.

"Well, it wasn't hard to figure out with all the context clues he had. I didn't seek him out, if that's what you're thinking. He's an Ethan's regular and he's been helping the people in Andy and Elena's building. He's not going to tell anyone."

"He told me the same thing."

"Then why are you so…"

"Because you almost died," he blurted. "You almost died and it was because you were connected to me, to The Mask. And Claire almost died. And…the more people that know, the more….He was right. He was right, about attachments."

"Who was right?"

"It doesn't matter," Matt snapped, making her flinch.

"I chose to come back, chose to stay with Patrick that night," she reached out to him. Grabbed his hand. "I chose to help you with Fisk. It's all my choice. And I'm choosing to keep helping you. Because…you're my brother. And, though we've got stuff to work through, I'm choosing to try and make sense of it."

Matty let out a long, low sigh. "I managed to get a name off Vladimir. Leland Owsley. Fisk's moneyman, Vladimir implied. Tonight, I'm going to look into it."

"And today?"

He frowned. "Today, I'm just glad all the people I care about are still alive."

* * *

 **Brain: Hey, that original novel of yours, shouldn't you be working on that?**

 **Me: Devil's Kindred**

 **Brain: But, querying. Timelines. Editing**

 **Me: FANDOMS!**

 **All the ships were satisfied today, you're welcome.**

 **Okay, kidding a little bit.**

 **But, there are legit shipping wars going on in my friend group and I am not upset about that. At all.**

 **Well, hope you enjoyed.**

 **Until the next update**

 **-Moonlit**


	7. Devil's Maker

**Second chapter to be updated in light of S3.**

 **Not much to say, except again my original AN for this chapter has been lost to the void!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Devil's Maker_

Iris was kept in the hospital another night and then released home. Matty insisted on her spending at least the first night in his apartment, just so he could have peace of mind. She wanted to argue, to tell him that if he was just going to go out and leave her there, he shouldn't even bother, but she didn't have the energy. And she didn't want Jo to worry. She wasn't sure if she could handle her roommate's….hovering.

Jo was nice enough, but Iris wasn't exactly used to friends. It had taken her awhile—and Owen's legendary persistence—to get her to even begin to open up to Owen. Jo's method was a lot less…subtle, and it was territory Iris was trying to figure out.

At least at Matty's, she could get some decent rest in. With their relationship being on…whatever terms it was, they were dancing around each other. They didn't speak much, but the sheer….protectiveness both Murdocks had for one another echoed their former, more innocent selves. And so it was a comfortable sort of silence, one she could rest in. One that she could finally use to get some sleep.

Or, at least that was what she thought.

"…it's from the deli down the street, Man. Real tasty. Chicken noodle. _Chicken noodle_."

Foggy's voice rang into the bedroom, where Matt had set up a recovery space for her, rousing her from her nap. The mention of soup made her stomach clench and gurgle. The pain meds made her nauseas, so she hadn't eaten a whole lot, but Foggy was selling it pretty well. She grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed and shuffled out into the living room.

Foggy and Karen were hovering in the entryway, Matty protectively angling himself, a barrier between them and her. She found it slightly endearing that he was trying to keep her sleep undisturbed. It rang of old times. Her brother turned at the sound of her.

"You shouldn't be up," Matty said.

"I heard soup was involved," she put a hand on his shoulder, her way of asking him to back off a few notches. "I'm finally working up an appetite."

"See?" Foggy said. "Even the sister wants our company."

"I'll get out some bowls," Iris started towards the kitchen. Her next step sent a stab up her side, and she hissed, grabbing at the fresh sutures. _Traitor,_ she scolded her body.

"I'll get the bowls," Matt gave in anyway. " _You_ sit down."

A compromise, one she could live with. She headed for the couch, snuggling under the comforter Matty was keeping there for his makeshift bed. Foggy and Karen filed in, Karen bearing two paper bags.

"Iris, please tell Matt we're not overcrowding you. You want nice, warm chicken noodle right?"

"Chicken noodle sounds nice," Iris managed.

"Perfect," Foggy smiled. "In which case, let's eat."

"Let's," Karen agreed.

Foggy and Karen took the armchairs, laying out the small takeout containers. "How are you feeling Iris?" Karen slid the other woman her container.

"In a drugged haze, so I guess I can't complain all that much," she shrugged, popping the lid off of her container. The scent wafted towards her, making her stomach snarl with anticipation. "Gonna be out of work for a week at least. No playing for about three. But, I'm doing okay. Matty makes a good nurse."

"Did you read up on the coverage of the explosion?" Karen asked. "They're calling the masked man the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen'."

Iris choked on her spoonful. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen," she repeated.

"Devil my shapely Irish ass," Foggy huffed. "Guy's a coward. What I wouldn't give to rip that corny mask off, and…"

"And what?" Karen asked.

"Punch him. In the face. With my…fisticuffs."

"I don't know, he seems pretty fisticuff-y," Karen held up her hands.

"Master fisticuffer," Iris nodded empathically.

"Please don't tell me I detect a hint of admiration for that terrorist," Foggy shook his head.

"Terrorist is a strong word, Foggy," Iris held up her hands, looking past Foggy towards the kitchen. Matty was clearly listening, a little too interested in searching through his cupboards and fridge.

"Exactly," Karen agreed. "The news is just all speculation. No one knows what he is."

"You're absolutely right," Foggy said. "Terrorists have causes. They claim responsibility. Al-Qaeda wanted the world to know just what kind of assholes they were. This guy? Not a peep. All terror without the 'ist.' You know that they call that? A nut-job."

Was this how the city saw Matty now? As an enemy? A terrorist? And had Fisk really managed to pin all of the destruction on The Mask. Or…the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"He saved Patrick's son," Karen offered.

Matt brought over a tray, stacked with bowls, cups, and a pitcher of water. Foggy was the first to reach for one, hissing as the movement irritated his own wound.

"How's the side?" Iris asked sympathetically.

"Downgraded to agony."

"Alright, Matt, what do you think?" Karen dumped her soup into her bowl.

"I think Foggy will be pitching for the Met's by mid-season," Matty snorted, sitting on the couch at Iris's side.

"I'm being serious," Karen chuckled.

"So am I. Have you seen their bullpen?"

Foggy cut in. "You telling me some dickhead blowing up your own backyard doesn't piss you off?"

"What happened to Hell's Kitchen, to you, to Iris, to Elena, to all the people who got hurt. Yeah. It pisses me off," Iris noted just a hint of the Devil in his posture. "But this man. Whoever he is, whatever his motive, he shouldn't be tried and convicted in the press. We're lawyers, we know that's not how it's supposed to work."

"So, theoretically, if this guy got caught, needed counsel, Nelson and Murdock would defend him?"

Iris's spoon paused half-way to her mouth. Foggy offered a hasty, "Hell no."

"It would be his right," Matt shrugged.

"What about my right, to punch him in the melon?"

"Seriously putting money on the masked dude in a fight," Iris tried for humor, to shift the conversation. It didn't work. Foggy kept pressing the issue.

"They pulled a piece of glass out of my side, Man. Elena needed twelve stiches. Iris got _stabbed_."

"Technically, I was mugged. Wasn't really a result of…"

"You wouldn't have been at the hospital had Elena not gashed her head in an explosion. Which this guy set off. You really wanna Perry Mason him?"

"I wanna make sure the right people pay for what happened," Matt said, voice a little shuddery. Iris could tell how much Foggy's distain for "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen" was cutting Matty to the core.

"Whole things moot anyway," Foggy said. "After he shot those cops, police are probably looking to settle things the old fashioned way."

"More than likely," Matty agreed.

Iris's stomach curdled, and the soup didn't look so appetizing anymore. "Wow, you guys are really good at making things deeply depressing."

"Yeah, Matt. Yeesh. Stop bringing us down," Foggy cracked grin. "High note. Softball. When are we getting a company team together?"

"Don't you have three employees?" Iris snorted.

"Well at least two of them aren't blind," Matty quipped.

"I mean. Iris could play for us. She's a Murdock. It'll work."

"Right," Karen laughed. She looked at her watch, frowning. "Hey, guys. I actually have this…uh…thing to get to do. I'll…see you at the office?"

"Matty will be there," Iris answered for her brother. "I'll just be sleeping anyway. And now I'll have leftover chicken noodle if I get hungry."

"Great. I'll…see you then."

"We'll be there," Foggy agreed. "Ready to…high note and stuff."

"Yeah," was all Karen offered, flashing a weak smile at the group before slipping out the door.

"You're a smooth one," Iris noted.

"Do you know she carries mace on her keychain?" Foggy asked.

"That a problem?" Matty asked. "Iris carries a knife."

"You ever worry about her?" Foggy asked. "Worry like, there's something she's not telling us?"

Iris remembered the day Karen came to her studio, asking about what to do with what she knew on Union Allied. She hadn't heard much, hadn't asked, figuring Karen would say something to Iris if she felt the need. Had she actually decided to look into it?

"Everyone has secrets, Foggy," Matt said.

"I don't," Foggy argued. "I'd like some. Like you and Hottie Mc-Burner-Phone. I mean I assume she's hot. Is she? Iris, have you met her?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly.

"So she hasn't met the sister," Foggy mused. "But, is it getting serious? Should I dust off the tux I'll need to rent? Can I call walking with Iris down the aisle?"

"No, uh…it…didn't work out," Matty tried to hide his frown.

"Oh," Foggy frowned. "I'm sorry, Man."

"Me too."

"I'm, uh, getting a little tired," Iris stood up. She was reading Matt, and he was starting to get uncomfortable with all the lying he'd been having to do that night. She figured she'd thrown him a line, offer help. "Matty, can you put my soup in the fridge? I'll eat it when I wake up."

"Yeah. Of course," Matty took the save, scrambling to his feet.

"You get some beauty rest, Iris," Foggy winked, standing up and shrugging on his suit jacket. "Gotta maintain those Murdock good looks."

"Right. Thanks for the soup," Iris smiled.

"Anytime. And think about the company softball team," he winked. "It'd be nice to have one sighted Murdock."

"Have a good day, Foggy," Iris rolled her eyes, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she shuffled back to the bedroom. She heard a vague exchange going on between the two, but she was too tired to listen in. Matty appeared in the doorway after Foggy left, hovering for a moment before finally deciding on what he wanted to say.

"You and Foggy seemed to have buried the hatchet."

"Yep," she gave a vague shrug. "You know, when the person you care about most is out doing who-knows-what in the midst of a city getting blown to shit, it's easy to bond."

His expression pinched at the accusation, hands finding his hips. "We're not doing this right now."

"No. I guess we're not," Iris flopped down onto the bed. She stared at the patterns in his ceiling, focusing on a spot that looked vaguely like a rabbit.

"I'm…"

"If you say you're sorry, I _will_ throw up on you."

He abandoned the half-assed apology, letting go an agitated sigh.

"Don't you have to go out?"

A long pause, Iris silently daring him to lie. "I do," he finally relented.

She made a vague gesture, telling him to go. He lingered for a moment, like he had more to say, but in the end he left. She turned away from the door, staring at the wall. She heard the trunk where he kept his gear scrape against the floorboards.

Finding Owsley, that was the next move in this crazy game he'd decided to play. She decided she didn't have the energy to worry anymore. The Russian, the explosions, the _everything._ Her new life, the one she'd been so hopeful for, was one big mess.

Messes seemed to find her so, so easily.

Matty's door slammed. The Devil was out, off to find his next target.

She sunk further into the mattress, shuddering. There was a time they wouldn't dare leave things like this. So…broken. They'd fought, as all siblings do, but they could never stand to hold a feud for more than a few hours at a time

They'd drifted so far apart.

And, it was hard when her present kept throwing the cause of that rift right back into her face.

* * *

St. Agnes Orphanage was a dismal place, but the sisters that ran it at least tried. Iris had made a few…well, she wouldn't call them friends, but at least she had a few girls to talk to and pass the after school hours away. Aldridge had extended her a scholarship, so her lessons continued and she found if she focused on her music or spending time with the other girls or her schoolwork, she only gave into the unbearable agony of her loss late at night when her roommate was asleep.

Matty, on the other hand, was pretty much in pain every waking hour. The heightened perception he'd told Iris about in secret had escalated to a terrifying level, leaving him unable to block out the city around him. He spent most of his time in his room, hands clutched uselessly over his hears and thrashing around on his bed. He heard, _felt_ everything except her attempts to calm him, to reassure him. Some days were better than others. Sometimes, Iris would read to him and he would latch onto her voice only, and he'd come back for at least a few hours. But some days, she felt utterly useless.

It was on one of those bad days, the ones where Matty was totally lost to his own pain, that Iris's life was set on its new course.

"Iris," Sister Helen, one of the younger, gentler sisters poked her head into Matty's room. He'd been moved to a private one, once his thrashing had made it impossible for the other children to get some sleep. Iris was used to sisters poking their head in when she was with Matty, trying to coax her from her brother's side. To spend time with the other girls, practice oboe, do anything but sealed herself away in Matty's room.

"I'm not hungry, Sister," Iris lied, though her stomach was growling. And the fact that her sister hadn't said anything about lunch was probably a dead giveaway.

"I'm not here for that, my child," Sister Helen shook her head. "Sister Bethany has asked for you in her office."

Sister Bethany was the elderly nun that ran St. Agnes, and although she had a kind reputation, the children always dreaded getting called into her office. Iris cast a look in Matty's direction, brushing his hair off his forehead. "I'll be right back, okay?" she whispered to him.

Iris stood from her chair, silently following the sister through the halls. She heard laughter from one of her acquaintance's rooms, and through the open door she saw a group of girls playing some sort of hand game. Mary-Sue, one of the youngest girls, gave Iris a toothy smile as she passed. The elder felt a strange sense of loss, missing out on whatever fun this one. But Matty need her, she had to look out for Matty. It was what Dad would have wanted.

There was something off when she got to Sister's Bethany's office. Iris was instantly tipped off when she saw Jennifer, her and Matty's social worker, seated on one of the chairs at the sister's desk.

"Iris," Jennifer stood up. "Come inside, we have something to discuss."

Iris was hesitant, lingering by Sister Helen's side. Sister Bethany reached into the jar of butterscotch she kept on her desk, holding it out, an offering to the little girl. "Would you like one?"

"Why is Jennifer here?" Iris demanded.

"It's good news," Sister Bethany assured, dropping the candy back in its place. "Jennifer has come to let you know that we have secured you a placement. We have someone willing to adopt you."

Iris's chest tightened a little. For so long, her only family had been her father and her brother. It was all she ever need, _wanted._ She didn't really think she'd be comfortable anywhere else. She'd never thought.

"I assure you, Dr. Manson is very excited to welcome you," Jennifer said. She was kind enough, sincere even, but Iris's breathing was already running away from her.

"Dr. Manson…" she wasn't sure if this were the same one she'd been met before, but if it were, the stern looks, the simple "promising" sent shivers down her spine. He'd pushed her as a teacher, invigorated her, but as family?

"Through Aldridge he heard about your father's passing," Jennifer explained. "He's always wanted a family, and he's been considering adopting a girl for some time."

"A girl? So, Matty…?"

Jennifer frowned, getting up out of her chair and leveling herself with

Iris. "It's a flawed system, I know. I've been doing this job for awhile, and it always pains me to see siblings separated. But Matthew…well, he has a…complicated road ahead of him."

"You're taking me away from him," Iris's voice cracked. She retreated back a step, swiping away Jennifer's reassuring hand. Tears leaked from the girl's eyes, her small frame trembling. "You _can't._ No. Sister, please let me stay. I can't leave Matty. Please, don't make me go."

"Iris," Sister Bethany's voice was apologetic. "It's a complicated thing, I know. But in the long run, I really do think this will be an excellent placement for you. We are exploring other options to help aide your brother. He is in a great deal of pain, you know that."

"Exactly why I have to stay," Iris insisted.

"Visitation can be arranged," Jennifer assured. "You'll still see your brother."

Iris had never felt so alone, so abandoned in her entire life. She looked at Jennifer, who'd always claimed she would be an "advocate" for their best interests. And yet here she was, willing to pass Iris off despite her protests.

Iris left the office, the world blurred through tears. Later that day, Sister Helen pulled her aside, probably on Sister Bethany's order, trying to reassure her. Iris wasn't reassured. And, despite her vehement protests, a few days later Dr. Manson arrived at St. Agnes to take her. Matty had been in too much pain to come out an see her off. She'd spent the entire night by his side, cleaving to him, crying.

And now, St. Agnes was disappearing in the rearview mirror of a stranger's car.

"Don't worry," Dr. Manson assured her, though she'd never found it reassuring at all. "Your past is over, Iris. We can focus on building you a future."

* * *

Iris heard the door opening, Matty's voice hissing orders. She blinked hazily awake, her side on fire and begging for another dose of meds. She groaned, turning over, as two sets of footsteps rattled through her ears.

"What a shithole," a gravely, aged voice snorted.

The unfamiliar sound sent Iris to her feet, shuffling for the doorway. An ancient man was standing in her brother's living room, sporting a pair of tinted glasses and a sour expression. The tilt of his head was familiar, the same thing Matty did when he was listening, observing the world around him.

"Do you have any idea what I pay in rent?" Matty was still in all black, but he'd taken off the mask itself.

The stranger scoffed, setting his glasses on the coffee table. "Expensive shithole. And who the hell is that?"

Iris tensed at the scrutiny, finding her voice regardless. "Who the hell are _you_?" she countered.

"Leave her out of this," Matty snapped.

"You're joking," the man snorted. "This is the sister, isn't it?"

"The sister is wondering who the crotchety geriatric thinks he is," Iris bit back.

"So being a little shit runs in the family, huh?"

"Stick, leave her alone," Matty warned again.

"You should do the same," this so-called Stick countered. "I thought we talked about this. Family, attachments," he sniffed the air, "the woman you had in here earlier. All distractions. Like furniture, apartments, and…whoa," he raised his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "Silk sheets." He said it with such distain, a scoff.

"Cotton feels like sandpaper on my skin," Matty argued.

"You'd be better off sleeping on real sandpaper than surrounding himself with this bullshit."

"Who exactly do you think you are, you Jurassic asshole?" Iris snapped.

"He's no one," there was the devil voice again. "This is my life, Stick. And I've made something of it. Without you. That's the part that really pisses you off, isn't it?"

"No, Matty, I'm proud of you, I really am. But this…surrounding yourself with soft stuff, this isn't life…it's death. Someday, those silk sheets are gonna crawl up behind you, wrap yourself around your throat, and choke you to death. You're a warrior."

"That's not all I am," Matty insisted.

"You're heir to the Spartans, baddest of the bad-asses," Stick kept pressing. "They knew what they had to do, and they did it."

"And what was that?"

"Cut it loose," Stick snapped. "All of it. Cut yourself free. From the women, the comforts, the fancy job."

"It's not all that fancy," Matty huffed.

Stick ignored the half-joke. "You have friends? People you care about besides the sister?"

"Two," Matty whispered.

"Cut 'em loose, for their sake. Break their hearts if you have to, but do it quick," he jabbed a finger at Iris too. "And you. You should get out now, go back to whatever the hell life the system put you in. You have any respect for your brother's true nature, you'll leave him to his path."

White-hot rage bubbled inside Iris, boiling her blood. This. This was the man who had twisted her brother to what he was. Who'd brought out the devil and made sure it stayed. Taken her sweet, sweet Matty and warped him.

"I'll make my own choices," Iris spat. "And Matty will too. So you can go shove off."

"You really don't want to piss me off, Princess. You keep yourself and your expensive perfume out of your brother's business. I trained him well enough to fight his own battles," Stick warned. He shifted his focus. "Matty, relationships are a luxury men like you and me can't afford."

"Is that why you left?" Matty's voice wavered a little on that question. Nothing from Stick, just silent shifting. "Huh? To protect me?"

"I had my reasons," Stick shrugged. Iris wanted to rip his arms off.

"I was a kid."

"You still are. Boo-hoo. Stick left me. I think I'll bury my sorrows beneath the legs of a supermodel."

"Don't push it, Stick," Matty hissed.

"Or what?" the old man challenged, unafraid of what provoking Matty might unleash. Unafraid, because Matty was a monster of this man's making. "I'm trying to teach you how to stay alive. You're worse than your old man." Iris and Matty both tensed at that. Iris found her nails digging into her palms. "Born to loose Battlin' Jack. At least your daddy got paid when he hit the floor."

Iris's fist was flying before she knew what she was doing. Then, pain exploded from her hand. She yelped, Stick's calloused, leathery grip nearly crushing hers. "I told you not to piss me off."

"Let her go, Stick," Matty warned.

"Or what?" Stick dared, tightening his grip. Iris hissed, chewing her lip to distract from the pain.

"Let her go," Matty repeated.

Stick said nothing, only twisted Iris's wrist. She screamed, and Matty lost it. He grabbed Stick by the collar, but without hesitation, the older man had Matty on the floor, arm pinned behind his back.

There was a moment before Matty flipped himself out of the hold, all flying fists and rage. His shout echoed through the apartment. Iris cradled her wrist, the throb pulsing up her arm but gradually fizzling off. Matty stood there in a fight stance, chest heaving.

"Took you twenty years to learn how to get out of that one," Stick almost sounded impressed.

"Yeah. I learned a lot since you've been gone."

"Like what?"

"You're a dick."

Stick laughed. "That's true. Wrist is fine, Princess. Ice it if it hurts, or take one of the those pain pills you've been taking for that side, but it's not sprained or broken." Iris shuddered at his level of perception. Stick didn't flinch. "Matty, you got any beer?"

Matty let go, the rage expelling itself like he was simply pushing out a breath. It was always eerie how easily he could switch like that. "In the fridge."

"I'll bet that it's the German piss, isn't it?" Stick helped himself.

"Want to tell me why you're here?" Matty sat down on one of his arm chairs. Iris took the other one. "Or is the suspense supposed to kill me?"

"It's the war, Matty," Stick popped the cap off his bottle. "The never ending war."

"With who? You never got around to that part?"

A solider, that was what this guy was treating her brother like. A perfect protégée, that was what Manson had tried to make her. Here they were, two people who'd been innocent, molded into something different, wrecked in the process. Iris hated Stick, a burning, acidic hate, for being responsible for the way things were now.

At least, now that there was someone to blame she felt a bit better.

"The Japanese, mostly," Stick sat down.

"Look, I don't want you tearing up Hell's kitchen looking for the Yakuza," Matty warned. As if the city were _his._ As if he were the only one that could protect it.

"Yakuza?" Stick scoffed. "You don't know what's going on in your own backyard. The guy that was yappin' with the old man you slapped around, he's pretty high up. He goes by a lot of names, using Nobu this time around."

"So, Nobu," Matty's voice was calm, detached, "you want him so bad, why'd you let him get away back in the garage?"

"I don't want him. I want what's on the ship he's meeting at the docks tonight."

"Right, Owsley was talking about that."

Iris shifted at the name Owsley. Fisk's money-man. A lead Matty had been chasing.

"What's Nobu bringing in? Drugs or something?" Matty asked.

"A weapon," Stick said. "They call it black sky, bringing of shadows."

Iris shivered at the name. "What kind of weapon?"

"The kind you don't want in world, Princess," Stick muttered.

Matty held up a hand, probably for her. Telling her to back off. "Just say it," he said.

"Say what?" Stick demanded.

"You need my help."

Another scoff. Iris ground her teeth. "I want you to help yourself, Kid. Nobu and his guys are in tight with Fisk. You hurt them, you hurt baldy."

"You know about Fisk?" Matty blurted.

"I know a lot of shit," Strick shrugged, holding up his bottle. "This beer, for example, sucks."

"All this talk about cutting friends loose," Matty said. "And now you need one."

"I don't need a friend," Stick snapped, "I need a solider. Committed. Not a bleeding-heart idealist holding on to half-measures."

"You are an unbelievable pile of shit," Iris growled. "Matty's not your solider, Dick. Where the hell do you get off?"

"Princess, this is the kind of shit you could never hope to understand. You stay in Delusion-Land where you belong and let the adults talk."

"Stick, you don't know anything about her. Or anything about what I'm doing here."

The old man leaned forward. "Kid, in a war, people die. If it's not you, it's the guy next to you." A beat, everyone in the room silently seething. "How many men have you killed protecting this city?"

Matty was silent, Iris dreading his answer. Stick huffed, tossing hands up. "Still afraid to cross that line, huh? Well, someday it's gonna come down to you and the other guy. If it's not Fisk, somebody else. What are you going to do then?"

The question winded Iris. The very question she asked herself when Matty's devil side kept her up all night. Kill or be killed, what would he choose? And when, not if, would that day come. What would Matty be after, and could she live with whatever that meant for him.

"A Russian asshole asked me that recently," Matt said. "Right before he died."

"You the one who put him the ground?"

"No."

"Half measures, Matty," Stick shook his head. "Listen to Princess's heartbeat whenever we talk about killing. This ends two ways. She buries you like she buried your daddy, or you cross the line, do what needs to be done, and you lose her forever. How the hell long do you think you can toe this line?"

"Shut up," Iris barked, the truth terrifying her from the mouth of a near stranger.

"Your choice," Stick sounded triumphant, a small smirk on his face.

"Do you want my help or not?" Matty hissed.

"Ride with me tonight," Stick set down his beer. "Help me destroy Black Sky, keep it off the streets, and I promise you this. Wilson Fisk will know the taste of fear the day he faces you, cause he'll know you kicked the guy he's afraid of right in the nuts."

"You're not doing this, are you?" Iris asked her brother, disliking every part of this deal. He ignored her.

"One rule," Matty uttered. "No killing."

Fisk sighed, holding up a hand. "I swear, I won't kill anybody."

"Matty…" Iris said weakly.

"The line's not as fine as he says, Iris," Matty stood, grabbing his mask. "I'll show him that."

"Damn naïve kids," Stick muttered.

"Lead the way," was all Matty said.

And Iris was alone. Alone again, left once again to face her inner struggles by herself. At least she was used to dealing with it that way. She'd learned early on in life that she couldn't rely on others, not for comfort. Everyone leaves eventually, nothing was constant or forever.

No matter how desperately she wanted to be wrong about that.

She went to the kitchen, throwing the soup Foggy had brought into the microwave. She could only stomach a few bites, enough to be able to next dose of meds, and then slipped into the shower. There, over the roar of the water, he old memories chased her.

* * *

"Again."

Iris shuddered at the word, squeezing her eyes shut to bite back the tears stinging them. She lowered her instrument, mouth tingling and numb. Her tongue felt fat, swollen. Her fingers were stiff and shaky. Four hours. That's how long she'd been practicing this piece, one she was certain was far above her experience level. But Dr. Manson had insisted. Told her that she needed to compensate for her "unfortunate start" in life. She needed to make up for it, to reach her full potential. She should be much further at twelve years old, he said, if she wanted to make the Philharmonic.

"I said _again_ , Iris," Dr. Manson repeated.

Four months of this. Four months of too late nights, constant lessons. School, homework, particle, food, more practice, bed. And she'd seen Matty only once, a weekend visit she'd had to put in extra practice hours to "earn."

Her tired, hazy eyes looked at the clock, blinking 11:45. "Sir," Iris muttered weakly, trying to keep her voice from breaking. "My mouth…At least let me shower, I'll come back to it, I promise…"

"Have you played measures fourteen to eighteen seven times in a row without mistakes?"

"No, Sir," Iris could only manage a whisper. She'd gotten as close to six, thirty minutes ago, but one missed sixteenth note had unraveled the whole thing. She hadn't been able to make it past four times since then. Her body was becoming progressively more useless, begging for rest but unable to accomplish the task that would get it there.

"Then again," Dr. Manson repeated.

Iris took a shuddery breath, raising her instrument back to her lips—her tingly, tingly lips—and praying. She got through two more repetitions before a hideous squeak came from her oboe. She lowered it, bursting into tears. Of frustration, of exhaustion. Of fear, anger. Of sadness. "I'm….I'm sorry…." she stammered.

Dr. Manson's fast didn't shift even a fraction. "Again."

"Sir, I…."

"Again."

Iris couldn't do it. Her steadily flowing tears turned into sobbing, outright shaking on her practice chair. Dr. Manson stood there, arms crossed. Unmoving, unflinching. "Again."

"I can't," she begged, thick snot bubbling in her nose. She choked, trying and failing to keep breathing through her nose.

"Iris," he said her name with an unsettling sharpness. It shook her to her core. "Calm down and go _again_."

"I'm so tired, Sir. I…"

The music stand clattered away from her, kicked away by Manson. Sheet music everywhere, whispering to the floor. Iris quaked in her chair. "Clean it up," Manson snapped. He stomped past her, the door to their practice room clattering shut.

Blubbering, she got to her knees, scooping up the music in her hands. She didn't have the strength to get back up. All she could do was sit there with the piece clung to her chest, quaking. He came back into the room, holding a small black case in his hand. Iris recognized her clarinet anywhere. The one her dad had gotten for her. She choked on another sob, missing her father with a vicious ache.

Christmas morning, tearing the paper off the beautiful instrument. "Hope you like it, Sweetie."

Manson fell into his own posture chair, quietly assembling her clarinet. "Again," he said simply.

"Dr. Manson," Iris whispered.

Manson secured the reed, inspecting the instrument. "Really a piece of junk," he said calmly. In one swift motion, he brought it over her knee. Iris yelped when the instrument fractured, a part of her breaking with it.

"Again," Manson repeated, calm as ever.

Iris balled her fists on the floor, taking a shuddering breath. She slammed the music back on the stand, gathering her instrument and blinking away her tears.

The next seven times she played her trouble spot, they were perfect.

She put her instrument away calmly, not saying a word until she got to her room. When she heard Manson's door slam, she thrust herself onto her bed, wanting the tears to flow again. But they couldn't. Wouldn't. The broken clarinet had broken something inside of her, or started to, and she didn't think she could stand to be broken any further.

She wanted out. She wanted back nights waiting up late for her father, Matty at her side. Being held, assured, safe.

It was another hour, her laying there flat on her back, staring at the fan on her ceiling. The clock had struck 12:45 before she moved, drifting like a ghost to her dresser. Shoving clothes into a duffle bag, like she was outside her own body.

The furthest place she could get to on foot, the only place she could think to go, was St. Agnes. It was dark inside, all the children sound asleep, and Iris crept her way into the chapel, staring up a the paintings of Christ's miracles that decorated the walls. Her favorite had always been the Feeding of the Five Thousand, and she often stared at it when evening prayers when too long, finding herself lost in the story.

Christ had nothing, and yet he'd taken that nothing and made a miracle of it, fed people. Her father had always told him that if they really tried, if they set their mind to it, that she and Matty would be able to do the same. That dream seemed so far away now.

"Who's in here?" a familiar, stern voice made Iris's arms with goose bumps. The little girl let out a squeak, shuddering when she saw a middle-aged sister walked towards her. A flashlight passed over the little girl's face and Sister Maggie's expression softened just a fraction. "Iris."

Iris stared wide-eye at the woman, quaking a little. The sister sat down, on the same pew but a considerable distance from the child. "How in heaven's name did you get here?"

"I walked."

Iris knew the reputation Dr. Manson had here. All sisters members were dazzled by the charming musician, the humanitarian with a sizable inheritance and a generous heart. They were quick to remind Iris how grateful she should be. All the members at her new church with Dr. Manson seemed equally as charmed, always whispering to Manson when they thought she couldn't hear. "Oh the poor thing," she'd heard countless times. "A criminal for a father. Dr. Manson, you're a saint."

"Sister, I…..I miss my family," Iris blubbered the only truth she felt comfortable uttering. "Is….is Matty here? I…."

"Matthew hasn't been here for several months, not since your last visit. We located someone who is known for work with special children."

Manson had never told her that.

The news played at her frayed nerves, and she burst into tears. Her sobs filled the chapel.

"Oh, Iris," Sister Maggie whispered, kneeling down at to be level with the child. She took her thumbs, gently swiping away Iris's tears. "Come with me."

Iris followed Sister Maggie to the infirmary, where Iris climbed onto one of the beds, leaving the room and coming back with a steaming mug of tea in hand. She sat at the girl's bedside while Iris cried, taking only small sips of the drink. The nun said nothing, only held the girl's hand. Her thumb gently rubbing back and forth in slow, soothing circles. A calm presence while Iris cried herself to sleep.

Iris woke up to Dr. Manson's voice, speaking with Sister Maggie. "Thank you for calling, Sister. I don't know how she managed to get out."

"It's alright. What matters is she is safe."

Iris tensed, knowing how furious he must be. What may happen as soon as the sister was out of sight. She pretended to still be asleep, but that only worked for a few more seconds. She felt his strong hands on her shoulder. "Iris, wake up."

She sat up slowly, reluctantly. He was holding out a hand expectantly, wanting her to take it. She hesitantly did, looking over her shoulder at the sister as she was led outside. Dr. Manson said nothing on the way home, only held her hand as they walked back to his apartment. He sat her at the table, still silent as he rummaged around in the cupboards. Moments later, he set a mug of hot-chocolate in front of her.

She blinked slowly at it.

"Drink," he offered, with none of the harshness of earlier. Iris picked up the cup and drank. He reached out a hand, stroking her hair. She froze at the touch, going rigid. But he just smiled.

"Iris, my girl, I know I am hard on you. But it's only because there is _so much_ you're capable of. I only want you to succeed. To have every opportunity life has to offer. You are my world now. Please, do know that."

He tucked her in that night, whispering, "I love you," before closing the door. It was one of the only few times he'd ever said it to her.

* * *

The pain meds dulled the world, making Matty's silk sheets a thing of glory. Stick was probably being such an asshole about them because he was jealous of how amazing these suckers felt. Especially when wrapped up in one of Matty's incredibly soft towels.

The city crawled around her, sirens squealing and dogs barking. Matty's neighbors fighting. All ten-fold for him. And Stick had taken that, molded it into a weapon. A soldier, that's what Stick had called him. But that's not what Matty was. Not really. And she didn't think he was an idealist, either. Just obsessively determined, a man overwhelmed by the world. And, so he was response was to…try and fix it all himself.

The nausea that usually always kicked in with a dose of oxi rolled through her, forcing her to peel herself off the bed. She stumbled for the bathroom, thankfully making it in time to puke in her brother's toilet and not in his floor. She sat there on cold tile, watching the water droplets slide down the walls of the still-wet shower.

She rested her chin on her knees, hating the familiarity of this very position. Of hiding from the world, hoping to disappear.

* * *

A thirteen-year-old Iris shivered, hovering over the toilet bowl. Her mouth burned with leftover bile, the sour taste almost enough to bring up more. She spat, pulling the flusher and scooting back, her knees huddled to her chest. Her back found the bathroom wall, cold and solid. The fabric of her new dress crinkled against her ski. She tried to hold onto the sensations, to not lose herself to the panic shuddering through her.

The sheet music for her solo was swimming in her mind, the short thirty-second blurb on endless repeat in her head. She'd acted so perfectly happy when her conductor offered her the opportunity, just as Manson would expect from her, but the truth of the matter was the impending judgment from Manson was a little too much for her to handle. She hated the long speeches, analyzing every aspect of her playing, the hours of practice if her performance wasn't satisfactory.

She picked herself up off the bathroom floor, venturing back into the band room where the rest of the youth orchestra was gathered, laughing and carrying on. Maybe some showed appropriate levels of nervousness. But they were all so unburdened. A middle school band concert was a middle school band concert. Not being put on display for judgment.

Iris bit back the resentment, sitting down with her "friends." Other girls in the orchestra Manson picked out for her. Because, of course, even her school orchestra couldn't be hers. Nothing could.

The concert was fairly standard up until Iris's solo. She played clarinet in this orchestra—she saved her primary instrument for countless the audition-only ensembles Manson had her doing—and, even though she was first chair, it was easy for her coast through her herd. Allowed all her energy to go into worrying about what came in the middle of the concert.

The time came, and Iris shakily got to her feet, ready to begin. The world went out of focus, the sound of her heartbeat in her ears louder than anything else. The sheet music swam before her mind's eye, rippling and blurry. The notes fell away before her eyes as she played them, falling into oblivion. At the end of the moving passage, she saw a trouble spot, her world splintering into panic in front of her. The mental image of the piece fizzled and died. She grabbed onto the first thing her memory grasped, jumping the whole orchestra three measures. The younger musicians fell apart around her, the ensemble descending into chaos for about three seconds before the error corrected and the flow was regained.

But the damage was done. Before she sat down, she caught a glimpse of Manson's stony face. Her stomach went cold, knowing what her night was going to look like. Iris spent the rest of the concert combatting the urge to curl under her posture chair and try to disappear.

Manson was, as always, perfectly pleasant with the parents of Iris's orchestra friends. He laughed and talked with them for a half-hour, always with a hand on Iris's shoulder. A firm grip, telling her silently they'd address her error later.

"Do you know what you did wrong?" was the first thing he asked when they got home, slamming the door behind them. Iris tensed, gathering all the emotions bubbling inside her into a tight ball and burying them deep inside. Getting emotional never worked. Appealing to him never worked. The only option was to comply until it was over.

"I lost focus, Sir," was all she could say. "I wasn't counting properly and paying enough attention to my conductor."

"Let's see how your focus is after two hours in the practice room. Get your clarinet. I want to hear that solo done properly."

She silently took the two hours without complaint, Manson silently watching her and offering correction when he saw fit. "Good, Iris," he said, her heart soaring with the prospect of a break. "You may go to bed now."

"Thank you, Sir," Iris faintly whispered, heading to her bathroom. She turned the shower on, the sound filling her bathroom. It covered the noise she made when she wretched her guts out. Her sobs as she huddled under the heated water, praying with her whole heart for a way out.

* * *

After about five minutes of sitting in just a towel, the cold kicked in and Iris decided she'd had enough of sitting around alone. Feeling sorry, feeling pissed. Feeling and not acting.

That was the old her, the one she'd sworn she buried with Manson.

She'd told Stick she made her own choices. It was time to prove it.

She flipped through her phone, looking for the contact she'd added but never had the courage to call. She sucked in a deep breath and dialed, her heart pounding the whole time it rang.

 _"Hello?"_ Owen's voice, it's familiarity, sent a surge of relief through her.

"Hey," Iris said, scolding herself for how breathless she sounded. "It's me."

 _"Iris,"_ he said. _"You called."_

A small smile found its way to her face, "That I did."

"Is everything okay?"

"Um…" Iris's throat tightened. "No. No, everything sucks, actually. And I don't know how to make it not suck."

 _"Where are you?"_

"My brother's apartment," Iris said.

A pause, long and uneasy. Then, "Do you want me to come over?"

"Are you kidding? This isn't my place. Kind of rude, don't you think?"

 _"Does he have to know?"_

"He'll know. Trust me."

 _"Do you care if he finds out?"_

A humorless laugh squeaked out, "No."

 _"I'll be there in ten."_

She stared at the phone long after the line went dead, trying to process what she'd done and easy it was to do it. Things back then had been so natural, but then she'd never been able to admit the truth. She knew he suspected to some degree, it was hard to hide everything after so many vulnerable nights together, but even on him she'd never fully unburdened herself on him.

She wondered if the dynamic would be so easy if he did, or if he wouldn't be able to keep pretending everything was okay.

* * *

"You're holding back," a younger Owen teased, easily dodging Iris's left hook. He went to tag her, but she counterpunched. Her fist connected with his face, sending him back a step.

"Bullshit," she snorted.

He laughed, holding his hands in surrender and leaning against the ropes. "So, you do have some of that Battlin' Jack fire in you, huh?"

Iris vaguely shrugged, slipping off her gloves.

"Not up for another round?"

"We have a quiz on augmented sixth chords tomorrow," Iris went to the ropes, reaching out of the ring and pulling up her book bag. "We probably should study. If I fail another one of these things, Manson's going to get suspicious about all this 'studying' and why it's not paying off."

"Getting a C is not failing. Especially not in music theory."

"You're also not Dr. Manson's daughter," she said, supremely proud when none of the bitterness inside reached her voice.

"Get out the textbook," Owen let out an overdramatic groan, flopping out onto his back. Iris rolled her eyes, sitting cross-legged at his side. They were in a debate about a German versus a French chord, when Iris's cell cut through the ring, playing Dr. Manson's ringtone. Her words closed in her throat, the panic that usually rose up whenever he called her swelling to a tidal wave.

She was supposed to come home early that night. They were having members of the Philharmonic over for dinner.

"Shit, shit, _shit,_ " she hissed, scrambling for her book bag. She took a deep breath before answering. "Hello, Sir. Owen and I were just…."

 _"And just where the hell are you?"_ the snarl was hushed, a near-whisper. He was in the bedroom, away from everyone so he could let his rage fly.

"I'm studying for my music theory quiz tomorrow. I…"

 _"I had better see you at home in thirty minutes, Iris."_

"Yes, Sir," he voice was small, barely a squeak.

The line went dead, her heart in her throat. She practically leapt out of the ring. "Iris, wait…"

"I gotta hit the showers. Manson wants me home."

He caught her arm. "Are you good? You're…"

"I'm _fine_ ," she snapped, wrenching her hand free and darting towards the locker rooms. She leaned against the lockers, shivering and trying to calm her breathing. She knew Owen would be out there, ready to ask her what was wrong. She couldn't face that, not when she knew she was just getting close enough to him to tell him.

She slipped out of the backdoor, avoiding him.

* * *

Owen was there in exactly ten, just as he said, showing up at Matty's door in a Doctor Who t-shirt and holding a bottle of strawberry bubbly in his hand. She was in lounge pants and an oversized shirt, her hair still wet from her shower. "You know I can't drink on these meds."

"Non-alcoholic," he assured.

Iris stood aside, "Come in and get that in some glasses."

"Your brother got any flutes?"

"He's a pretty bare-essentials kind of guy."

"Where is he?"

"Doing something stupid."

"Are you two…fighting?"

"No," she said, then thought about it. "Maybe. I don't know. It's complicated. He's complicated."

"You know what's not complicated?" Owen shrugged, holding up the bottle.

"Big fan of uncomplicated," she agreed, going to the kitchen. She got out two mismatched glasses, watching the drink fizzle as he poured. "To uncomplicated," he toasted, raising his glass.

"To uncomplicated." She sighed, tossing back a sip. The taste was perfect, even without the bite of alcohol, but it couldn't erase a thing. Not even Owen could. Especially with who he worked for, with what he knew about Matty. She set down her glass. "Unfortunately, complicated seems to be all my life is right now."

"A lot of that going around," Owen whispered.

"Owen, what do you know about a man named Nobu?"

He froze, "Is that who your brother is going after?"

"Yeah."

"Shit," Owen whispered. "Ballsy, taking the Japanese by himself."

"He's not exactly by himself. The guy who trained him showed up. They're after something called a Black Sky."

"Nobu's got his hands on Black Sky?"

"Apparently. The guy kept talking about a never-ending war."

"Shit. Was your brother trained by The Chaste?"

"The Chaste?"

Owen threw back another gulp. "That's a whole lot of complicated, Iris."

"Big freakin surprise," she spat.

"Iris," Owen's voice was light, gentle. "I missed you like hell. And when you came back…I'm glad you're here. And, if there's anything I can do…"

"Just," Iris gave a weak shrug. "Be here, I guess. Like all those days, when we were kids. Young and dumb. And we just…existed with each other."

"I can do that," he said. He settled onto the couch. His scent spreading all over Matty's sheets probably. She didn't really care all that much. Iris lifted her feet, sitting them on his lap, staring at the wall.

They were like that for another hour, before the meds finally rocked Iris to sleep. She swore she felt Owen drape the comforter over her. She relaxed into the blanket, riding exhaustion into oblivion.

* * *

When she woke up, Owen was gone. And someone else was standing over her, tinted lenses boring into her very soul.

"Who the hell did you have in here?" Stick accused.

"None of your damn business," she spat, sitting up. A little too quickly. Her side pulled, but she ignored it. She looked around, noticing her brother's absence. "Where the hell is Matty?"

"On his way back," he said. "And don't worry about him smelling your little boyfriend. He's going to be too pissed at me to even realize."

"What the hell did you do?"

Stick shrugged. "What needed to be done."

The upper door to Matty's apartment burst open, slamming behind him. He paused at the top of the stairs, sensing Stick, and made a slow descent. The tension was palpable. Matty walked by the chair where stick was seated, tossing two short sticks at the older man's feet.

Matt ripped off his mask. "You promised me you weren't going to kill anyone."

Stick shrugged, no apologies. "Yep."

"Then what the hell was that back there?"

"The mission."

Matty unhooked his wrist guards, the rip of tearing Velcro. "Is this what your war has come to? Killing children?"

"What?" Iris's voice was tight.

"That thing in the container wasn't a child," Stick said.

"I could hear his heartbeat," Matt finally turned in Stick's direction. "It was fast and light. He hadn't even hit puberty."

"You're emotional," Stick said.

"No shit."

"If you'd focused beyond your crybaby feelings, you would've sensed what that kid really was."

"He was just a kid."

"You're blind as you ever were."

"Well, maybe you should have stayed and finished training me yourself."

"I needed a solider. You wanted a father."

"Screw off, asshole," Iris spat.

"Princess, I've tolerated you enough this evening. Don't try my patience anymore." Stick got to his feet. "You take care of yourself, Matt."

Matty stepped in front of him. "I'm not going to let you kill that kid."

Stick shrugged. "Oh, he's already dead. Caught up with the van while you were dicking around with Nobu's men. Put an arrow in that thing's heart."

That broke Matty. Fists started flying, the two blind vigilantes going at each other with a ferocity Iris was quite fully able to process. The struggle shattered the end table first. "Can't even tag an old man," Stick taunted, but Matty kept fighting. Like a rabid animal, all rage and fists. The devil and his maker.

Stick tossed Matty over the coffee table, right into his couch.

Iris screamed is name, tripping over the wreckage.

"You get out of the way," Stick warned her. "Get up, Matty."

A small moan and a little wiggle. "I said get up." Stick grabbed Iris by the back of the shirt, throwing her aside like a rag doll. Matty growled, trying to struggle to his feet. Stick kicked his former student, forcing him to the ground. " _Get up."_

One of the short sticks was rolling in Matty's direction, and he caught it, coming alive and seizing the advantage. He was merciless against his old mentor, keeping him down. The only hit Stick managed to get in was a brief choke hold, which Iris was sure might be Matty's end, but the younger flipped them both off the stairwell, crushing Stick beneath his weight.

 _Careful of them Murdock boys. They got the Devil in 'em._

Panting, Matty got to his feet. Stick tried to make a counter move, but Matty was an unstoppable force. He finished Stick with a roundhouse, then tossed the old man's bag at his chest. "Get out of my city," the Devil of Hell's Kitchen hissed.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet." Stick only laughed, struggling to his feet. He found his glasses, displaced in the struggle, and put them back on his face. "Nice catching up. You can keep the sticks. You're gonna need 'em. Think about what I said, Princess."

The door closed me behind him, reverberating through the apartment.

"Matty…" she began, but he ignored her.

He began digging through the wreckage of the fight, in what she guessed was an attempt to somewhat clean up the disaster. If he smelled Owen's lingering presence, he said nothing. Iris only heaved a long-drawn and sigh and knelt down to help him.

They stayed like that for just a few minutes, sorting through smashed furniture and broken glass and whatever the hell else the fight unearthed. Matty suddenly stopped moving, going straight as he picked up something small and faded. Iris squinted in the fading light, seeing her brother hold a small braded paper bracelet. "Matty…?" she asked, and again her words fell on deaf ears as he found the couch, fingering the tiny faded thing in his hands.

"I made this, for Stick. The day he left. He kept it…"

She noticed Matty's chin tremble, tears threatening to fall. "Oh, Matty," she whispered. She sat down by his side, glued to his side like old times. He blew out a shuddering breath. "He really was an asshole."

"So was Dr. Manson."

They stayed like that for what was left of the night. At one point, Iris dragged the comforter back to the couch to keep them both warm. But, he told her about Stick and she told him about Manson. And for the first time in awhile, the nagging about the mask and all the complications….it didn't matter.

They needed each other and they were there. Despite all odds, they'd found each other again.

Brokenness seemed to be the only way to fix them.

* * *

 **Exploring these old chapters was fun, though I really only touched the scenes with Sister Maggie in them. I'm planning to do a full clean-up of the chapters, to fix some awkward editing issues, but for now, just keep enjoying!**

 **-Moonlit**


	8. The Face of the Devil

**Another post-facto edit of a chapter. Second to last one. This one I cut the conversation between Iris and Sister Maggie completely, because I honestly was never sold on it to begin with.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _The Face of the Devil_

"I'm going back home today," Iris announced.

Matty was on the couch, silent and stoic among the wreckage of his fight, still not dressed for work. Not really surprising, given that it was only five in the morning. He probably found her duffel—one Karen had packed and brought over when Matty first turned this place into Iris's sick ward—in her hand.

"Huh? What?"

"Home," she muttered, though the word tasted off, so she corrected it, "My apartment. I'm going back."

"Iris, you.."

"Can recover just as well there as here," she shook her head. "You're a the firm all day, and evening, with the tenement case. And at night…" she was sick of talking about the devil, so she didn't. "It's time for me to rest up there, Matty. I'm safe. It's okay."

"At least let me hail you a cab."

"Fair deal," Iris gave a weak shrug.

The air in the apartment was thick, filled with the released emotions from their confessionals last night. All Iris's secrets, the things she kept twisting up inside for years, released and free. The air was heavy, but she felt lighter. Like she could take a step. Face it all head on, and revel in the control she'd taken. Control Manson no longer had.

And Iris was free to face things with Matty head on. To pick up the fractured pieces and form a mosaic. "Matty, when we talked last night…"

"All that time," he cut her off. "Me being angry at you for leaving me. And you never left, not really."

Iris let her gaze slide to the ice-cream bracelet. "The first night I was at his house, I sobbed for hours. I felt like it never really stopped, I just kept wanting everything to go back to normal. It never did. It taught me to think that people either don't care about you—at least not in the way they should—or leave you. No one but me was going to pick me up and keep going. I even gave in to the thought, when Manson moved us south, that I really would never see you again. But, against all odds I'm here. And I'm trying so hard to unlearn the toxic lessons I learned with Manson. To trust that some people do stay. Matty, I want this part—you, finding my baby brother again—to be the thing that stays. I'm tired of focusing on the grief, the wasted years. I'm ready to move forward."

"Me too," he agreed.

It was a start. One more inch towards the life she'd hoped she'd find. It gave her hope that maybe she'd find it.

Piece by piece, she'd find the home she'd been searching for.

* * *

" _Hey_ , Iris."

The way Jo said her name, Iris was instantly on guard. The cellist was leaning against their island, cradling a mug with a picture of J.S Bach in sunglasses, declaring "I'll be Bach." Jo inclined her head in the direction of their living room, where none other than Owen was seated on the couch. He stood right up when he made eye-contact with Iris.

"Hey," he said.

She let her duffle slide off her shoulder, plunking to the floor. "Hi."

"I'll let you two…. _talk_ ," Jo gave a smirk, picking up her mug and mouthing 'he's cute' to Iris before slipping into her bedroom.

"I was hoping you'd left your brother's apartment," Owen shrugged, hands finding his pockets. He was in his suit for work, sans the earpiece. Just that small thing missing let her relax a bit. "I'm glad I found you here. Your brother has terrible taste in glassware, I'd rather not see what his coffee mugs look like."

She rolled her eyes, grabbing two mugs from the cupboards and pouring them both some coffee.

"Yeah, well. He's _blind,_ so…"

Owen's smile faded, voice dropping to a whisper. "Is he?"

Iris looked the Jo's door, and though it was closed she knew better than to try and push her luck. "Outside."

She went to the window, opening it up and crawling out onto the fire escape and sitting down on the rickety metal. Owen followed suit, dangling his legs over the edge and watching the city below. She remembered one of the only times she'd been allowed to go to Owen's apartment, drinking Dr. Pepper and eating popcorn of his fire escape.

His smile now was so different than the carefree grins he'd passed her when he tossed pieces of popcorn in the air, laughing when he missed his mouth and watching the snack fall to the alley below.

"So…the Black Sky," Owen said, grounding her firmly in the present. "What.."

"Dead," Iris cut him off. She held her coffee mug firm, trying to center herself with the warmth on her palms.

"That explains it then."

"Explains what?"

"Why Nobu is so pissed. Fisk is on edge, scared. And, frankly, I'm scared how he's going to lash out when he's cornered. After what he's already done…" Owen shook his head. "You know, when I first started out with Fisk, it was little things. Dirty money, bribing a cop. Stuff that was shady as hell, but as long as I had food in my stomach and I could sent a couple of bucks to a relative in need when they asked," he shrugged. "Then, it got worse. Prohaska murder, using your brother's firm to sweep it under the rug. I got a little itchy, started losing sleep over it. I'm newer, so I'm just really getting to a point of trust. But the more I learn….Then, the shit with Anatoly Ranskahov went down."

"Anatoly Ranskahov?"

"The night you played for Fisk's date, the Russian that came in? That was Anatoly, one of the two brothers that ran the operation. Dead now. So is other one, Vladimir." She squirmed at the name. "Fisk absorbed their facet of…whatever operation he's been dealing in. Anyway, Fisk took Anatoly's head off. With a car door. After I tossed you in a limo, I saw the tail end of it."

Bile rose in the back of her throat, "Shit." She'd heard about a Russian losing his head, but how it had happened…

"Then the explosions, the Black Sky…I'm scared of what Fisk'll do next, Iris. Who else he is going to put six feet under. And how he's gonna do it." He looked her directly in the eyes, all the mirthful glimmer gone from his eyes. Deadly serious, sharp. "He needs to be stopped, Iris."

Iris looked to the street below. Two kids were outside, kicking a ball back and forth. Squealing, laughing. Someone hopped in a cab up the street. A horn blared, racketing from building to building. "How do you propose that happens?"

"I know a guy who wears a mask and has it out for Fisk," Owen took a sip of coffee. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has got what to takes to bring him down."

"Owen, that sounds…."

"Final? Yeah, well so is taking someone's head off with a car door. Or blowing an entire outfit to shit. Or what that piss-scared Russian would have done to you, if I hadn't done what I needed to. You think Fisk would hesitate to kill Matt if he got the chance?"

She let out a shuddering breath, tears stinging at her eyes. Owen let down, his breath whistling through his nostrils. "I'm sorry. I know that sounded….I just…don't see how, with the way Fisk handles things, both of them come out of this alive. I want to be wrong about that, I…"

"You are," her voice broke on the declaration. "Wrong, I mean."

He said nothing, his disagreement with that statement obvious in his face, but he kept quiet about it. "Whatever his play, Iris, he's been beating on people to get information. Maybe…maybe not having to beat anymore might be helpful."

Her eyes got wide. "You mean…"

"Anyone who goes against Fisk…they usually end up bloody. So, no one on his force besides me is going to have the balls to do this. Whatever I tell Matt, it's on him to prove. In…whatever way he can. And then, he can do with that information…whatever needs to be done."

"When do you want to…"

"The sooner the better. Like I said, Fisk's been getting a lot of pressure from his associates. The Mask is making them all tense. I don't know how long my employer can stand the pressure before he lashes out."

Iris checked her watch. "I'll call him, make lunch plans. Then you can tell him what you know."

In a simpler time, this would have been where Own offered her a goofy grin, pulled her back to her feet. Instead, he just offered a grave nod. "Make the call."

* * *

They agreed to meet at Ethan's, a small comfort given the nature of their conversation. They claimed a small little booth in the back, and a younger woman who sometimes worked nights with Iris took care of them. Iris and Owen arrived first, and she ordered the first thing that her eyes found popping off a menu she knew by heart. By the time Matty got there, the waitress had already brought drinks around.

Owen was the first to his feet, speaking too quickly, stammering a bit. "Hey. I've heard a lot about you. I'm Owen Danvers." He thrust his hand out. Hissed, drew it back. "Shit…uh, sorry. I mean. Just held out my hand. I'm…"

Matt didn't have the patience, "Why are you choosing to speak out about your employer now, Owen? From what I understand, you've know about my…involvement in trying to bring down his operation for awhile. Why so quick to offer help, all of a sudden?"

"Matty, calm it down," Iris whispered.

"No, Iris, I got this," Owen fell back into his seat. "It's a fair question, Matt. Can I call you Matt?"

"No."

"Right, well anything else would be weird, so I'm going to go a head and ignore that. Here are the facts." Own dropped his voice to a whisper. Matty finally sat down, but kept his fists balled under the table. "I care about Iris, a lot. We go way back. And when that Russian took her, almost killed her for what she knew…" Iris shifted uncomfortably. Owen leaned forward, pressing his energy into Matt's perception. "She was bleeding out, all over the floor of that shipping container. I mean, it was everywhere. For a half-second, I thought she was going to die. The exact kind of shit that happens when people get in Fisk's way, by the way. And when I asked her if she would stay out of it, you know what she told me?"

"Owen," Iris silently pleaded.

"She told me she wouldn't stop, not as long as you were digging into it. Because of you, she's deep into this. And she's not going to back out. Truth be told, Wilson Fisk needs to go down. And since you two stubborn assholes have decided that pursue it, consider me a contact. I'll tell you what I know. Everything I possibly can."

Matt titled his head just slightly. "And the catch?"

"The catch is proving it's all true. Fisk is a ghost, and you really can't count on anyone who works for him to back up what I tell you. I'm one testimony, one that—if it goes public—Fisk will try and eliminate. Very messily, bloodily. And finally. So I can give you what I know, but I'm an anonymous tip, nothing more."

"I found out this morning that my business partner and our legal assistant," Matt finally let just a tiny bit of the tension of his body and reached for his water, "they're investigating Union Allied Construction. I'm doing…investigation of my own. I'm hoping those channels come together, work themselves to a conviction."

Owen scoffed. "A conviction? You want to, what, put him away with the justice system? When the courts are probably in his back pocket? Or did you not realize it when he blatantly used your firm to cover up Prohaska's murder?"

"Don't," Matty growled, "push me. You want to give me the information, fine. But if you came here to criticize my methods, you can get the hell out of my life. And my sister's."

"No," Owen said. "You don't get to keep her from me, try and threaten me out of her life. Your methods, fine? Do whatever the hell you want. But when he finally does find the man behind the mask, if you don't stop him…she's the first one he'll come for."

Matt coiled, ready to lash back, but Iris stepped in before anything could happen.

"I get it, alright?" she hissed. "You both care about me, you both want Fisk put in his place, and you both have a _lot_ of options. So, let's focus on the stuff we have in common and remember why we're here."

Both men were silent for a long time, Iris getting really annoyed with all the flaring tempers. Though, part of her was terrified about the reason behind those tempers. Fear. True, raw fear. And, she believed every word of what Owen said: if Fisk caught wind of what Owen was doing, or, worse still, Fisk finding out who Matty was….Iris would be the first one Fisk sought out, revenge for their sins.

Owen took a long, deep breath. "Here's what I know about the man I work for."

* * *

Long after Owen and Matty went back to their respective jobs, Iris stayed behind, sitting at the counter and drinking a hot tea Andy had set out for her. The older woman occasionally checked up on her employee, but for the most part let Iris nurse her drink. That is, until it was completely gone, and Andy could no long smother her mothering instinct.

"You look like you're doing better," Andy slid an éclair across the counter, a tall glass of chocolate milk by its side. "How are you feeling? On the house, by the way."

Iris looked at the pastry, almost bursting into tears. "Sore, but that's to be expected. I've been resting. Just needed a change of scenery,

"Good," Andy reached across the counter, gently rubbing Iris's arm. "You hang in there, you here? Night shifts just aren't the same without you."

Iris allowed herself a small smile, "Thanks, Andy." Her boss went back to work, and Iris went back to digesting her thoughts. Owen had divulged some shady shit, a lot of which Iris already knew. Some of which Iris wish she didn't know. The most terrifying part being all the people Fisk sent to their graves because of what they knew. He'd ordered a cop in his back pocket, Detective Blake, shot for letting Matty get ahold of the Russian's addresses. Another thing Fisk had pinned on the mask. Every illegal thing, ever reckless move, this guy was making Matty a scapegoat for. It all made her fixate on Owen's words: _You think Fisk would hesitate to kill Matt if he got the chance?_

No, Fisk wouldn't hesitate. But, was it really kill or be killed? Was there another way to bring down the true devil of Hell's Kitchen? Or would Matty have to cross a line that Iris wasn't sure she could live with him crossing?

Either way, one thing was for sure: Iris could do nothing about it, nothing except help when she could. The ultimate choice was up to Matty, and that was probably what was killing her the most. She wasn't going to have to learn to live with her own choices—that, she could handle—but she was going to have to live with his. And, if he took that step…

She wasn't sure if she was going to be able to look at him the same way…

"Iris."

She yelped, dropping her éclair-covered fork to the counter with a clatter. Half-choking on her most recent bite, crumbs spewed everywhere as she coughed. Patrick Kent settled beside her, offering an apologetic smile. He set a Styrofoam to-go container—his initials scrawled on it in Andy's script—in front of him.

"Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"You're good," she assured, taking a napkin from the dispenser and dabbing away the crumbs. "Lunch order?" she nodded to the container, thankful for the distraction from her own self-pity. Wanting to hold onto another other emotion as long as she could.

"Yeah. Andy set's it aside for me every day," Patrick smiled. "I pick it up between sites. Indulging the sweet tooth?" he indicated her half-eaten pastry.

"Rough day. Night," she shook her head. "Week, really."

"How's the…"

"Better," she nodded, though the sutures pulled and burned a little just thinking about it. She moved off the thought quickly, "I never really got to thank you properly for the flowers."

"It's nothing," he shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I, um, should actually head out. Gotta be at this house in Harlem on time."

"Yeah," she nodded. "Of course. Safe travels."

"Thanks. You take care," he looked like he was going to move, to initiate some form a physical contact, but instead he turned and headed for the door. Iris found herself watching him go, unable to make peace with the unfinished nature of their conversation.

He abruptly stopped, turning on a dime. He noticed her watching, paused for a second, and then trotted back up to the counter. "Iris," he said, "this may be forward, but….would you like to go out? On a real date, not instigated by well-meaning elderly women. And also, one that hopefully doesn't end with the city getting blown up and one of us getting stabbed."

The question, despite its rushed delivery at its bittersweet humor, was so damn normal that Iris let out a shuddery laugh. "Well, I don't know, I was always under the impression those were the kind of things that made dates exciting." She picked up her fork. "But, I'll leave it up to you to show me otherwise."

He broke into a smile, "So that's a yes?"

"It is a yes," she nodded. "Pick me up tomorrow night, my place. Seven. That work?"

"It does."

"Then, Patrick Kent, we have a date."

* * *

Iris really hated getting calls from the burner, she really did.

She also really hated how it could bring her from the comfortable haze of half-sleep to fight or flight mode in under a second. "Matty," she sat up in bed so quickly the sutures yanked in warning.

" _I'm fine,"_ he skipped right to reassurance, bless him. _"Mostly."_

"Define 'mostly'."

" _Claire is at work, so I'll need you. Minor abrasion. Not too deep, but it's gotta be sutured. Cut in an alley, after I scaled a hospital wall."_

She let out a deep sigh, "Why were you scaling at hospital wall?"

" _Long story. Is your roommate home?"_

"No, she's barhopping with a couple of her friends."

" _Be there in a minute. Unlock your window."_

The line went dead, and Iris kicked off her covers, grabbing her high school gym shorts from the edge of her bed and pulling them on. She flipped the lock on her bedroom window, opening her laptop and putting on a brainless series on Netflix to wait it out.

Matty came stumbling in a few minutes later, finally giving into the exhaustion he'd been no doubt fighting all the way to her apartment. He was holding his right forearm, deep red blood seeping through the torn fabric and right through his fingers. He collapsed right into her desk chair.

Iris already had the alcohol rub and sutures ready. She grabbed her kit from her dresser, closing the distance between them. "What the hell happened?"

"Old dumpster, piece of metal sticking out. I was sloppy, too focused on getting out of there unseen. Snagged my arm right on it."

"What, exactly, were you doing?" Iris dumped the alcohol on a clean rag, rolling up his sleeve and pressing it against the wound. He went stone still, forcing himself to keep back a cry of pain as the antiseptic burned up and down his arm.

"Detective Blake, the dirty cop Fisk had shot," Matty said, clearly thankful to the question. "He was in a coma, woke up today. After everything Owen said, everything it's on me to try and somehow prove….figured I'd see what I could get out of him."

"And?"

"His partner, Hoffman, got to him first. Apparently, Fisk ordered a hit. Blake's dead. I left Hoffman unconscious. I'm guessing this is another thing they're going to try and pin on me, try and make me out to be…."

"A devil?" Iris started on the first suture. "Yeah. You're probably guessing right."

Neither of them said anything while she finished up, silence heavy. Two more sutures later, and she was finished, starting at a patch up wound she would be bragging to him about on a normal day. In a simpler time. She rolled down his sleeve, "You're good to go."

"Thanks, Iris."

"Yeah," cause that's all she could say. He didn't move, neither did she.

She curled her knees to her chest, just watching him for a moment. "Did you get what you were looking for? Did Blake…"

"He died before I could get much," Matt shrugged weekly.

"And, what are you going to do, with what you do have?"

"I meant what I said in the diner," he said. "I want to put Fisk away the right way. No killing. You have to believe that."

"I do," she nodded. "I know you don't want to kill him, but…"

"Ben Urich," he cut her off.

"Who?"

"He's a reporter, for the _New York Bulletin._ Karen and Foggy have been investigating Union Allied with him. Based on what Owen told me in the diner, if they dig…they'll find a trail right to Fisk. If we drag him into the light, force people to start digging…"

"Your plan is to air his dirty laundry? Let people find out for themselves what a kind of man he is?"

"It's the only thing I can think to do."

It was a relief to hear, to find out he didn't have murder on the brain. That he was determined to seek out other ways to end this. "So, you go to Ben as The Mask, and…"

"Relay what I know. He'll pass it to Nelson and Murdock, I start playing this thing from both ends. Fisk gets yanked from the shadows, and this..."

Her chest lightened, head dizzy relief. No killing, just a clean exposition of the truth. The right channels. Fisk relied on anonymity, Owen had told them. If they took it away…

"Then, this ends," she said. "All of it."

* * *

"And here we are," Patrick opened the door, flicking the light on and illuminating…

"An empty apartment?" Iris blinked a few times. The whole drive over, Patrick had been closed lipped about the location of their date. She'd been speculating, but she had to admit, this isn't what she expected. There were a few boxes piled in what would probably come to be the living room, but otherwise the room was starkly empty. So empty her voice echoed when she talked.

"Correction," Patrick took her coat, storing it in the hall closet. _"My_ empty apartment."

"Really?"

"Just closed a few days ago," he shrugged off his own coat. "Sabrina is helping me move us in next weekend."

"It's lovely," Iris kicked off her shoes, padding across the plush carpet to explore. She paused when she got to the kitchen, seeing a set of grocery bags on the island. "You're cooking?"

"Um, _we're_ cooking," Patrick shrugged. "Recipe my sister taught me. Figured we could try it out. Together."

She walked up to the bags, peeking inside to see the context. Fresh ginger, jasmine rice, stuff for a salad. And one cooler, filled with shrimp and cook wear. "You're putting an awful lot of faith in culinary skills I don't have."

"Really. You'll do fine," he assured. He dug out the head of lettuce, tossing it to her. "Get us started on salad, and I'll get the ginger sauce going."

"Ginger sauce?"

But he was already digging around in the grocery bags.

Iris surprisingly found that she was enjoying herself. She cut everything for the salad unevenly. Some lettuces leaves bigger than others, some tiny chunks of tomato, some too fat to eat in a single mouthful. And her attempt to toss it was just as pitiful. But, the company kept things alive and before she knew it, they've set their plates down on an overturned moving box and sat down on the floor. Thunder was rumbling distantly, lightning never far behind.

They'd set up camp right by the bay window overlooking the city, a perfect view. Better than most could hope for. "Best part about this place," Owen set two glasses of wine between them, nodding to the city outside. "That and the fact that it's, well, mine."

Iris looked down at the food before her. Shrimp smothered in the ginger sauce, laid delicately over the jasmine rice. Most of this endeavor was his effort, and a really tasty-looking effort it was. Patrick took a sip of his wine, still fixated on the world below. "Divorce has been final for two years. That's how long I've been staying in Breeny's townhouse, costing her the money she usually gets from tenants. I pay her, of course, but not nearly as much as I should have. And, don't get me wrong, my sister's place was great, and I'm always going to be grateful for the help, but…you know, it finally feels like, after so long, I have my life back. Or I'm starting to. Delilah's grip on things has weakened day by day, and I really feel like it's finally gone."

Iris almost asked what happened between his ex and him, but she also didn't want to push him further than he wanted to go. Especially the way his face contorted when he said "Delilah's" name.

"I'm sorry. I took that way too deep," he shook himself out. "This is supposed to be date. We're supposed to be having crappy small talk about the weather or…whatever people do. I don't know, it's been awhile. What do normal dates look like?"

"Way less fun than I've had already," she assured. "And, after how we met, I don't really think anything can get 'too deep'."

Patrick shrugged, picking up his wine glass and holding it out to her. She smiled, clinking hers against his. "Let's dig in."

As they ate, rain began pelting on the windows, picking up from a light spritzing to all out storming. They were half-way through the meal when the power finally cut, plunging the apartment into darkness. Iris yelped, dropping her fork. Patrick sputtered on his wine.

"Shoot," he said, clambering to his feet.

She laughed, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him back down. "Relax," she dug around in her purse, flicking on the flashlight and turning it upside down on the table. "Better."

"Thanks," the tension melted out of him.

She shook her head. "Least I could do for the chef."

"You helped," Patrick countered, stabbing one of her particular Frankenstein-esque tomato slices. He furrowed his brows at it, allowing himself a grin. "And it's the thought that counts."

She threw her napkin at him, and they both burst out into laughter before continuing their meal.

* * *

After dinner, they moved the box into the kitchen, tossing the dishes in the sink for later, and dragged some of the pillows and blankets from one of the boxes to the window. Of course, the 'dream big' pillow had made it into the mix, and Iris scooped that up right away, cuddling it to her chest as she watched mother nature rage on the city. She wondered if Matty had gone out in this, what his plan for the night was. But, then she remember his goal: she expose Fisk, to end things by bringing him down through safe, legal, neat methods, and she relaxed.

All of it would be over soon.

And here she was, sheltered from the storm. With a nice, normal guy. After a nice, normal dinner. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to turn for the better.

"I used to be terrified of thunderstorms," Iris said. "Matty had to crawl into bed with me to get me to calm down. I was always embarrassed by it, I was the big sister, but I never asked him to leave. We used to try and one-up each other with which one of us knew the weirdest bible stories, fall asleep telling each other the best parts of the Bible."

"And what's the weirdest one you two found?"

"I don't think this was the weirdest, but this is definitely easily one of the most badass females in the Bible."

"And who gets that honor?"

"Jael."

"Wasn't she an evil queen who murdered a guy for his vineyard?"

"You're thinking of Jezebel. _Jael_ was the wife of Heber, a Kenite. During the book of Judges, Israel was in a lot of battles, because they kept displeasing God and straying from him. There's a cycle: Israel rebels, God judges them, Israel asks for repentance, and God sends a deliverer. During this time, Israel was fighting Canaan. Sisera, the baddy general, was so scared by Isreal's armies that he fled the battle on foot. He came to the tent where our heroine Jael was staying, and she took him inside, telling him not to be afraid. He had every reason to be afraid of her. She wasn't about to let the enemy of her Israel get away. She gave him milk to calm him, and waited for him to fall asleep. When he did, she took a tent spike and drove it through his head. And when Isreal's armies came looking for him, Jael presented Sisera to them."

"You forgot the part where Deborah told Barak to fight, and because he said he wouldn't go without her, Deborah declared Sisera would be delivered into the hands of a woman."

"You knew the story?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to hear you tell it."

"Are you Catholic?"

He nodded. "Truth be told," he muttered. "I haven't gone in a long to church in a long time, not since Delilah. Breeny keeps trying to get me to go but…I don't know. You're Catholic, you know how people see divorce. I know I should have ended it, but am I doing the right thing. Wanting to be with someone again?" he looked at her, and it was very clear who that "someone" was.

"Patrick," she shook her head. "I don't know what went on between you and your ex, but…if anyone deserves to be happy in love, it's you."

"I could say the same about you," he held her gaze.

There was a moment of silent, unresolved tension. Her breathing quickening, her heart skipping up to match. She soon felt his breath, gingery from their meal, on the skin of her face. He'd closed the gap between them, his gaze fully on her, but he was waiting. Hesitating. Just when she was sure he wouldn't go through with it, when he would pull away, his lips found hers. She leaned right into the kiss, unraveling.

Her hands found his face, cradling him to her thunder roared outside, but it was distant, small-time compared to the thunder roaring inside her ears. The world slowed, its rhythm matching his heart, hers. Patrick, for a moment, was the sun around which her senses orbited. The only things her body was letting in were the smell of his skin, the sensation of his lips on hers.

He moved to her neck, brushing gently against her skin. "Iris." Him whispering her name sent a tingle all the way to her spine, heat prickling from the point of impact. She kissed his forehead, hands tangling themselves into his curls. "Iris," he repeated, a normal volume now. It was jarring, enough for her to pull away. Almost. Their foreheads were still together, his breath synced with hers. He cradled her face, blinking slowly.

"Iris, this…us. You and me…" so many ways to put the two of them together. So many ways to say it, and yet each one of them made perfect, total sense. "Is it what you want?"

"Yes," she said in earnest, scaring the hell of herself with how much she meant it.

"Then I'll be honest," he scooted back just a little. She nearly fell over with the sudden lack of proximity. She blinked up at him, confused. "What I went through with Delilah. I…I promise, I'll work up the courage to tell you. But…she hurt me, Iris. In more ways than I want to admit. And you…you came along, and you just _made sense._ And I want to be with you, to get to know you, to have find the thousand more reasons to fall for you there probably are." She sensed a but, dreaded it with ever fiber of her being, but kept silent. "I want this. But, it has to be slow. I can't…I can't rush things. Not again. There are…barriers I'm not ready to cross yet. And I don't want you to think."

The relief was dizzying. The great "but" so simple, so easy. She leaned forward, kissing the top of his head. "I'm Catholic," she whispered into his curls, chuckling a little. "Barriers, I can handle. We can go as slow as you need."

He cradled her face again, staring into her eyes. His thumb brushing her cheek in a slow, rhythmic. "Thank you," he whispered, finding her lips again.

And just like that, Iris had stolen herself a little piece of normal.

* * *

 _Turn on the news._

The text had been loud, she'd forgotten to lower the volume on her phone before going to bed, and she groaned, bleary eyes catching Matty's contact name on the screen. Blowing out a breath, she crawled out of bed, already seeing Jo in their living room, staring at their TV. Before the saw the face of the speaker, she recognized the voice, a pit dropping into her stomach at the sound.

 _"….in fear of madmen, with no regard for who they injure. In fear of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen…."_

Wilson Fisk was there, standing on the steps of city hall, Vanessa Marianna by his side. In broad daylight. His name was blatant on the banner beneath the scene, declaring, "Wilson Fisk Pledges Aid to Hell's Kitchen."

So much for drawing him out, giving his secrets no place to hide. Whatever Ben may have found was probably neatly swept away now, swept away like everything else. Like Prohaska, like Russians….

He'd gotten rid of his own shadows, standing before the city as if he had nothing to hide. And, as far as the good people of Hell' Kitchen would ever know, he didn't have to hide a thing. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, however…..

"Shit," Iris whispered, dropping beside her roommate.

 _"…who has inflicted untold pain and suffering. This masked terrorist and psychopaths of his kind, we must show them that we will not bow down to their campaign of intimidation and coercion. As this man, my good friend Leland Owsley, a pillar in the financial community, stood up when he was recently assaulted. But this assault was for no other reason to send me a message. To give up my dream that I have for this city. A dream of a better place. A place for its citizens to feel safe. To feel pride."_

"I know, right?" Jo whistled, head already in her smartphone. "This guy pops out of nowhere, but he's trending already. Internet's coming up with all these stories with a poor kid from the Kitchen who got himself a business empire. And now he's back, ready to clean up our city."

"Yeah," Iris said bitterly. "A regular Bill Gates."

 _"I tried to do this quietly. The last thing I wanted was for the ones I care about to become a target for anyone who does not share my dream. Fro those who will have this city stay exactly as it is, mired in poverty and crime. But I know now it was foolish to make that decision. That I can no longer do it alone."_ Fisk looked to Vanessa, standing stoically at his side, and took her hand. _"That I can not keep living in the shadows, afraid of the light. None of us can. None of us should be forced to. We must do this together. We must resist those who would have us live in fear."_

"Shit, and he's dating my boss," Jo snorted. "Think she can arrange a meet up?"

 _"My name,"_ Fisk lookeddirectly to the camera, gaze piercing, _"is Wilson Fisk. And tougher, we can make this city a better place."_

And just like that, the game had shifted again.

The devil had shown the world his face, and made the whole world think he was an angel.

And Iris feared that there may truly be only one way to stop things….

* * *

 **Patrick and Iris moments always are my favorite to write.**

 **This was a pretty difficult one, considering the episode was so Fisk-heavy, but hope you enjoyed!**

 **-Moonlit**


	9. The Fury of Hell

**Last post S3 update! After this, it will be our regularly scheduled programming.**

 **This is what I get for trying to jump ahead of the writers. Oh well, the adventures of fanfic writing!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _The Fury of Hell_

"Can I help you?"

"Father Lantom," Iris turned her head at the sound of the priest's voice, her breathy whisper not even enough to catch the reverberation of the cathedral ceiling. She tried to take a centering breath as the priest walked towards her, to ignore the tears welling in her throat, to find some comfort. The rock of faith was her constant, as it was Matt's. Exactly why she figured here was where she'd find Matt.

Maybe. Hopefully.

She'd called as soon as Fisk's broadcast ended, and got silence from both his regular phone and the burner. She didn't _think_ Matty was reckless enough to bring out The Devil of Hell's Kitchen in the daylight hours, but desperation did things to people. She knew that much. She'd come here hoping to find that she was wrong, that Matty was thinking before he acted.

"Iris," Father Lantom finally closed the bridge between them. He had this gaze, one that seemed to read every part of her. "The only soul afraid of servant of the Lord is a guilty soul," Grandma Murdock used to say. Lord knows she had enough sins.

"Is there something I can help with you with?" Lantom asked, snapping Iris back into focus.

"My brother," she blurted, voice breaking just a little. "I'm looking for…"

"He came by this morning. We had coffee, spoke for awhile," Father Lantom frowned, still searching her face. She stiffened at the scrutiny. "I'm tempted to make you the same offer."

"He was here?" the relief hit her hard, turning her knees to putty. She steadied herself in the knick of time. "Where did he..?"

"I believe he went to his office."

"Thank you, Father," Iris voice was paper thin, barely a whisper as she choked on her own relief. She turned on a heel, ready to get the first cab to Nelson and Murdock.

"You know," Lantom's voice stopped her in her tracks. "We had a very long conversation this morning, Matthew and I." A beat, Iris slowly pivoting around to face him again. "About the devil."

"The devil," Iris repeated.

He nodded, again staring her right in the eyes. "I remember you as a child, Iris. You and your brother. And I remember your father." Those words knock her down, the final blow. She lowered herself slowly into a pew, and Father Lantom sunk into the one right in front of her, sitting backwards, draping his arms over the back. Casual and open, honest.

"A lot of people around here, they still remember your family. What happened to your brother, your father…you."

Iris said nothing, just stared straight ahead. "When you were a child, Iris, you took your responsibilities as a sister very seriously. Matthew was your world, anyone could see that. And you and your brother, you were your father's world."

Iris had known that, always had, but she always knew that was the very thing that had killed him…

"I kept up with you, after you were adopted. Your letters—the ones you sent for Matthew—I could always sense…something. You were lost then." The truth of those words weighed on her, but again she kept silent.

"Sister Maggie would share those letters with Matthew," Lantom continued. "And he always found great comfort in them. Until they stopped, of course."

"I didn't want to stop writing them," she admitted. "I wanted to do way more than just write letters he couldn't even read himself."

There was a long pause, "Do you pray often, Iris?"

The question floored her a little. "Father?"

"Praying, Iris."

"Of course I…" she let her voice falter under the weight of that knowing look. "Truth be told, when I was child, when I was that lonely little girl you kept hearing about, I stopped believing God heard my prayers. But, maybe it was because I was praying for something that was impossible."

"With God all things are possible, are they not?"

Iris sucked in air through her nose, holding her breath. Blinking to stave off tears. She didn't know how this man could find her fears, her insecurities, and turn them inside out. Make her feel so open and vulnerable and yet so safe.

"What did you pray for?"

"For my old life back," she let out a small, bitter laugh. "Now that I'm here again, with Matty back in my life, I'm starting to see that's never going to happen. I don't know why I ever expect things to be the way they were. Life doesn't just go back to the way it was."

"No, it doesn't," Lantom agreed. "It changes, sometimes for the better, sometimes…not. But never outside God's sovereignty. Never doubt He can carry you through whatever it is you're going through." A beat, Lantom staring directly into her eyes. "Never doubt that He can carry Matthew through his struggles as well."

Iris shivered, hands balling into fists. "You know…"

"I don't know what you're implying," Lantom shrugged in a way that he actually did know what she was implying. Of course Matty would go to confessional about this.

 _"Forgive me, Father, for I crushed yet another druggie's windpipe last night…."_

"Iris," Lantom said. "When you were little, there was no doubt in my mind you would go to the ends of the earth for your family. If you were there the day of your brother's accident, it wouldn't have surprised me if you were there to push him out of the way. Please, keep loving him that way. He needs someone right now, someone who knows every part of him, to keep him grounded."

* * *

"Yeah, I could say I'm Captain America, but it doesn't put wings in my head."

Iris snorted at the tail end of Foggy's comment, snorting to announce her presence in her brother's office. She leaned against the door, offering a smirk at the other half of the outfit. "Gentlemen, Karen," she inclined her head, then zeroed her gaze in on the fourth occupant of the small space. "Complete stranger."

The newcomer wasn't old, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't exactly young either. A handful of wrinkles pitted his dark skin, his stubbly beard and short hair peppered with grey. Sharp eyes narrowed on Iris, appraising her with a sharp, inquisitive stare.

"Iris," Matty was the first to come to life. "This is Ben Urich."

"Pleasure," Iris inclined her head a fraction. "Now, what's this about Foggy being Captain American?"

"It's uh…" Foggy stammered. "I…"

"Let me guess, Ben has been helping you investigate Fisk?" she cut him off, remembering the conversation in the diner. Ben flinched visibly, sending a confused glare Matty's way. A sentiment lost on the lawyer. "I loved your article on Union Allied, by the way."

" _Wow,_ Matt," Karen scoffed. "You talk about not bringing too many people into the investigation and…"

"Objection," Iris raised her hands. "In Matty's defense, he didn't want to tell me, but…I was employed by Wilson Fisk a few weeks ago. He…came clean, asked what I knew."

Ben raised a brow at her. "And..?"

"Well, there were some weird behavioral patterns, and the whole thing was crashed by a panicky Russian, so there's that."

"That's perfect," Karen said, taking a step towards Iris. Matty shifted, obviously more than a little pissed Iris was trying to worm her way in on this, but the bastard needed to go down somehow. If Matty was going to play this from both ends, so was she. "Your testimony just may prove he was collaborating with the Russians…"

"Not exactly," Iris shook her head. "It was a public restaurant. In case you've been checking out the Internet, Fisk has wiped his slate clean. He was ghost, until that little show on TV. Now, the sources make him out like Tony Stark with more daddy issues and less of a drinking problem. Rich philanthropist, trying to do some good. There's probably already a neat little story to explain it."

"Not to mention how people who oppose Fisk tend to end up," Matty agreed, his voice tight. Almost verging on a growl. "Dead."

"And the man in the mask," Karen moved off the subject before anyone had time to digest that thought, "when he came to see you.."

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen came to you?" Iris asked, trying not to look Matty's way.

"He did," Ben agreed, reaching into his bag. "And he wants the same thing we do: to expose Fisk." He handed Karen a stack of papers. "Printed this from the thumb drive her gave me."

Karen looked wide at the stack, rushing to her desk to peruse through it.

"He claims that Fisk is behind the bombings," Urich continued, "shooting those cops. Said he owns half the police, that they helped him take down the Russians."

"But I don't understand," Karen shook her head. "If you have all this, then.."

"Hearsay," Matty cut her off. "Can't print any of it without corroboration, can you?"

Foggy shook his head. "Mask could be blowing smoke, trying to cover his own ass. I mean he just killed Detective Blake."

Ben shrugged. "Said Blake's partner Hoffman did it, probably on Fisk's orders. But, yeah, it occurred to me."

"You could...talk to Hoffman," Matty's voice was scarcely audible, throat tight with the weight of the secrets he was keeping.

"Tried," Ben said. "But he's in the wind. Or bottom of the river. Either way…" Ben cut himself off with a vague shrug.

"He just shrugged," Iris and Foggy said at the same time. The two locked eyes for a minute, a mutual moment of solidarity.

"Sorry," Ben said.

"Okay," Karen was still shuffling around in the stack. "What about the Union Allied money. Any way we can tie it directly to Fisk?"

"Maybe," Ben said. "According to the Mask, a man named Leland Owsely runs the books. But ever since the Mask roughed him up, Owsley's surrounded by Fisk's security twenty-four seven. Can't get anywhere near him. Same goes with, uh, James Wesley, the guy who you said hired you to defend Healy."

Iris shivered at the name.

"Look, the Mask came to Ben for help," Karen said. "I don't care how rich Fisk is, no one can erase their past. Somewhere out there, there has to be a piece of paper…."

"A witness," Iris cut her off.

"Yes. Exactly."

"You have something?" Ben turned to the elder Murdock.

"Iris," Matty warned.

"No," she cut him off. "I said I worked for Fisk. Well, the reason I got the job was because my old college friend…is sort of on Fisk's security force."

All the heads in the room swiveled to her.

"He's been expressing…uneasiness lately. I think…I think maybe we can convince him to come forward. To speak out. We'd have to be careful, because truth be told, Owen is scared shitless, but…"

"Yeah, I think a member of Fisks own security force is a good way to start," Foggy snorted. "Not to mention the Confed Global angle."

"Confed Global?"

"Suit that hired us to defend Healy. Standing right next to Fisk," Foggy said.

"Confed Global is where Fisk gets most of his income, according to FCC filings," Ben agreed.

"So we play this out. If Confed Global is connected to Fisk, that means he's connected to Westmeyer-Holt Contracting…."

"Strong arming tenants out of their building," Karen clarified. "They were hired by Armund Tully."

"The slumlord?" Ben asked.

"Who, according to his lawyers he's on vacation," Foggy said, "on an island whose name no one can pronounce where they use coconuts as phones."

"So another connection in the wind," Ben said.

"Westmeyer-Holt, to Confed, to Fisk," Matty said. "Pull that thread, see what it unravels. And with Iris's witness…"

"We may actually be able to build something," Karen declared, her confidence admittedly a bit inspiring.

"Still not sure about this Mask guy," Foggy shook his head.

"Well, he didn't hurt Ben and he didn't hurt me," Karen insisted. "And he rescued Patrick's son. I'd take the Devil of Hell's Kitchen over Fisk any day. Plus, he kicks ass. You should see the way he was flipping around in the rain."

Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw a tiny smile work its way onto Matty's face. She rolled her eyes a little, turning back to the other members of the Nelson and Murdock team.

"Well is he's such a badass why did he come to Ben? Why doesn't he just take Fisk down himself?" Foggy asked.

"Maybe he knows there are some roads you can't come back from," Ben whispered.

* * *

Iris shivered at the entrance to Owen's apartment building, knowing what she was going to have to ask of her friend. She knew how those who displeased Fisk ended up, but if Owen coming forward could prove the game changer in Nelson and Murdock's investigation, if it could truly bring down Fisk…

 _"Yeah,"_ the voice in the callbox crackled over the old speakers.

"Here to visit a resident. Owen Danvers."

A slight pause and then, " _Danvers cleared out two nights ago."_

"…..what?"Iris asked.

 _"He cleared out. Left enough rent to cover the rest of his lease and then...left. Had movers come in and get his stuff out, but never showed up for that part."_

Her heart rate was picking up, slowly climbing to her throat. "O…okay," Iris stuttered, slowly taking a step back. She lost track of how long she stood there on the street, staring at the building, before she finally got up the courage to pick up her phone. Her fingers, shaky and unsteady, tripped over the keypad several times before she finally got to his contact.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ an automated voice on the other line droned, _"the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected."_

Iris choked, almost dropping her phone straight onto the concrete.

Because she knew how those who stood up to Fisk ended up….

* * *

She stumbled back into her apartment, her heart roaring in her ears. Matty, she had to call Matty, had to clear her head. She didn't know Owen was dead, not for sure. There was some other explanation, there _had_ to be…

Any minute, Owen would call her, tell her his reasoning behind going into the wind. He'd make a joke, bring up her only pleasant memories of college like he always did….

And yet, the whole cab right back, _nothing._ As she rode the elevator up to her floor… _nothing._

"Iris," Jo trotted up to her as soon as she got in, clearly unaware of how her roommate was feeling. And, honestly, what was there that Iris could say? My brother—a vigilante—is investigating Wilson Fisk, and his only lead—my college best friend—is in the wind, maybe dead? This was a burden that she couldn't unleash on Jo. She had to bury everything, push it far away.

She tacked on a smile, setting her purse down on the kitchen island. "Hey."

"Who's the greatest roommate ever?" Jo slid into one of their barstools. "I'll give you a hint: the answer is me."

"Oh really?" Iris went to the fridge, trying to find something—anything—to keep her brain from focusing on Owen.

"Yes," Jo nodded. "So, you know I work for Vanessa, and that she was impressed with our collaboration."

"I was there," Iris agreed, the humor really not making its way into her tone. Only bitter sarcasm came through.

Jo kept going. "Anyway, Wilson Fisk is holding a fundraising gala soon and….guess what?"

"What?" Iris closed the fridge, doing a terrible job of not slamming it.

"They want us to play," Jo grinned. "We just have to play a few pieces and then we get to enjoy the party. And the best part: we get to bring at plus one."

Iris pasted on her best version of a smile, struggling through the sludge of her own emotions, and collected herself. "That's fantastic, Jo. Really. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Iris," Jo finally realized her roommate's state. "Is everything…"

Iris phone cut her off, and when Iris saw Patrick's contact, she was thankful for the out. She held up her phone, shuffling into her room.

"Hey, I…"

"Iris," the tone of made Iris's stomach tie into knots. Tears spilled right through the other line, breaking down the floodgates Iris had been holding back all day.

"Iris, your brother and his friends got a call. It's….it's Elena Cardenas…."

* * *

It was cold—shit it was _cold_ —but Iris couldn't bring herself to focus on the temperature. She could only focus on the way her knees were slowly turning to liquid. Or the way her stomach was contorting itself. Her own quick, shallow breathing. It was all so sickeningly familiar.

She saw her child self, standing in front of the casket at her father's funeral. It was closed, because what his face looked like after….

Then Manson's funeral, the old man just as cold and stark as he had been in life. Iris unable to take her gaze away from the body, thinking it would move at any minute. Trying to wade through a swamp of emotion. Because, truly, surely, she couldn't actually be free. Surely it wasn't very Christian of her to find relief in someone's death. And so she cried, because she was sad, in some way. Confused. Guilty. Sick.

And all she could really think about that day was her father's death.

Everything brought back that sobbing eleven-year-old cleaving to her brother in a dark alley. The smell of blood, the distant flash of sirens, and her brother's quaking form in her arms.

The medical examiner removed the sheet from the body, and Iris faintly heard Karen squeak, burrowing into Foggy. A sob tearing from Andy's throat. Elena Cardenas was on that table, cold and lifeless. Once again, death had shoved its way into Iris life, had made a mess of everything.

"It's her," Foggy whispered faintly, half for the examiner, half for Matt.

Iris felt Patrick's hands on her shoulders, offering a reassuring squeeze. Or maybe he was seeking reassurance. She wanted to help, but her own demons were plaguing her at the moment. The room was spinning.

Iris saw Matty out of the corner of her eye, stone-faced. She remember the little nine-year-old she'd cradled in the alley that night. She remember that once they got to the police station, once he'd cried out every last tear in his body, little Matty was wearing the same expression. Dazed, set like a blank slate.

Her head buzzing, Iris shouldered her way past the group, letting herself out into the hall. She slid down the wall, melting into the linoleum floor. Shoes shuffled over to her, and she looked up into Patrick's misty eyes. "I'm sorry. I…"

"It's okay," he whispered, holding out his hand. She took it, letting him draw her back to her feet. She leaned into him, amazed by his solidity. Amazed by how easy it was to let him hold her.

"How did…" Iris asked, voice wan and thin.

"Multiple stab wounds. Some junkie was found running off with her purse."

She shivered.

"Foggy agreed to help Andy with the arrangements."

Iris swore, trying to skirt around him. "Andy's in there, I've got to…"

"No," Patrick drew her back to his side. "You've seen enough. You don't need to go back in there. Andy's strong, she's fine."

But Iris wasn't strong. She didn't feel that way, at least.

Just then, the rest of the group filed out of the morgue, bringing with them a chorus of low voices. The officer that had accompanied them in the room offered his condolence before strolling off, leaving the miniature crowd. She vaguely recognized him, recalling him as a friend of Matt and Foggy's.

Iris was at a loss. She hadn't known Elena all that well, not really. Not like Karen, Foggy, and Matt, but damn if she wasn't reeling from it anyway. The chokehold death had on her life was profound. It followed her, an unwanted shadow.

"I think we need a drink," Patrick whispered.

"We know a good place," Foggy's eyes were puffy and swollen at this point, nose red and stuffed. Iris's heart squeezed at the way this man just _cared_ so much it rolled off him in waves.

Plans for cabs were tossed around, efficiency in the wake of their world crumbling. And all Iris could do was stand there stunned, the seconds inching by unnoticed. Matty caught her arm when the group was filing out, pulling her back to him. "Iris."

She was forced to look into that stony face again, to once again relive the statue-still nine-year-old sitting wordlessly on the bench in the police station. The crippling fear he'd never talk to her again, that she'd lost him forever too.

Now here he was, locking himself in his own head, carefully concealing the darker parts of himself. The parts that hated, the parts that were probably screaming for revenge. But revenge was for the Lord, not the devil….

Except Iris couldn't feel anything right then except the need to scream, to fight back against the broken world that took and took from her.

And as she held her brother, felt him shaking with pent-up range, she knew that's exactly how he felt. Knew that all he wanted to do was let the devil out, let it take over and make whoever was responsible pay.

And, for once, Iris couldn't bring herself to condemn him for it.

Because she wanted the same thing.

"I understand," she whispered. "I do."

* * *

Andy, after a lot of begging from the group, agreed to stay at her son's place for the night. Once they were satisfied Iris's boss was safe, the quintet headed to Josie's, an old dive the Nelson and Murdock crew frequented, their grim faces immediately tipping off the place's namesake to the nature of their visit. Josie, a stout woman with a wicked sharp stare, gave them their first round free, saying little else. She refilled their glasses without digression, leaving two bottles at the table for the little ragtag group to share.

Josie kept them coming, and Iris kept knocking them back. The alcohol did nothing at first, nothing to shake the images of Elena's corpse and, grimmer still, lingering right beneath the surfaces, the poorly-repressed memories of Dr. Manson grey-skinned on that metal table. She tried to chase it away, each sip burning on the way down, but the only thing that the drinking did was submerge the world in a warm haze. She could probably work with a warm haze. If she could keep it going.

"When we first took the case," Foggy said, long after the lights had gone slightly blurring through the haze of alcohol, "Marci talked about a 'criminal element' in Elena's building. Said that's why the workmen left without finishing the repairs."

"Cause they feared for their safety," Karen added.

"I thought it was bullshit," Foggy whispered, chasing the statement a long swig.

Iris let out a low snort, slamming her newly-empty glass down on the table.

"Maybe it was," Matty said, voice low. Iris looked at him out of the corner of his eye, knowing him well enough to read the rage bubbling beneath the calm expression plastered onto his face.

"Yeah," Foggy slammed down his empty glass, "tell that to Elena."

"What are you saying?" Karen asked.

"I don't know," Matt shrugged, though Iris, way past drunk territory as she was, could tell that he did know. He knew exactly who was responsible for this. And he was deciding just how to make the bastard pay. "It just doesn't feel right, does it?"

For once, Iris understood the devil in her brother.

"I'll drink to that," Foggy whispered.

"What do you mean, Matt?" Patrick, who had barely touched the bottle, leaned on the table. He kept passing Iris side-long looks every time she poured another glass, but when she realized it was concern and not judgment, she'd relaxed.

"Do you think it was a coincidence? Elena agrees to stay and fight, to rally what's left of her neighbors, and this happens?" Matty spoke carefully, every word measured. He had to devil under tight rein, but that untamed creature was fighting the bit. Matt had to work to keep it at pay, to hold onto the façade of a grieving, even-tempered, lawyer-by-day. Upstanding, ducky Matty Murdock. His control over the wildfire inside him, the way he held it all into a tight little ball for later, was truly the most terrifying thing she'd seen from him.

Karen shook her head. "You mean…Fisk had something to do with this?"

The name sent white-hot surges of rage through Iris's bloodstream. She grabbed for the bottle, nearly missing her glass before Patrick helped her. "Some 'better tomorrow'," she snorted.

"Speak of the Devil," Foggy snorted, nodding to the TV on mute just above the bar. Matt shifted around in his seat at his friend's wording.

"Fisk in on the TV again," Iris clarified.

"Josie, can you turn that up?" Matty requested, his squirming finally stopping.

 _"No, I never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Cardenas,"_ Fisk's familiar voice filled the hazy air. _"I only recently took possession of her building."_

 _"How do you respond to reports that you knew the tenement was unsafe?"_ a reporter asked. Iris's grip on her glass tightened.

 _"That is accurate,"_ Fisk agreed. _"That is why we offered a substantial sum to Ms. Cardenas and her neighbors to help them relocate. We should never let good people get swallowed up by this city. I mourn this woman's death. Didn't have to happen. It should have—" he shook her head. "Her passing is a symptom of a larger disease, infecting all of us."_

Foggy's cell chirped from his jacket, tearing attention away from the TV. Iris became aware of her fist balled tightly on the table, nails digging into her palm.

"Funeral home," Foggy said, checking the ID. He got up from the table, making his way through the throng of patrons, taking with him the temporary distraction.

 _"….fear of bombing, of cop killings,"_ Fisk continued his tirade, face contorted with chillingly genuine grief, " _fear of a masked psychopath. We shouldn't let people like that take our city from us. We need to stand together. Let them know that they will fail, because we believe we can make a difference. 'Cause they are cowards. Afraid of stepping out of the shadows. Afraid of standing up for people like Mrs. Cardenas. I'm sorry."_ Fisk shook her head, overcome. He began to walk away from the throng of reports, ignoring their remaining questions. _"I'm sorry."_

"The Mask isn't a psychopath," Patrick shook his head. "That is what I believe. That performance Fisk just gave, however…"

"Almost sounds like his means it," Karen hissed.

"I think he does," Matty whispered. Iris snapped her gaze in his direction.

"Yeah, in the same way I meant it when I said I liked Grandma Murdock's meatloaf," she spat, knocking back the rest of her glass. She went for another one, hoping this would be the round that made that calmed storm in her head. At this point, she wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the tears making the room blurry.

"And he's calling the man in the mask a psycho?" Karen snapped. "I hope they trace what happened to Elena right to his doorstep."

"He'd never expose himself like that," Iris whispered. "Owen being in the wind makes that fact clear. Not to mention half the force is probably in his pocket."

"Well, then let's pray The Mask get his hands on him," Karen said. "Knocks his goddamn head off."

Iris choked on her next swig, spewing cheap whiskey all over the table. She coughed and gagged, the stimulation sending her stomach into somersaults. "Shit," she whispered, stumbling out of her table. "I'm gonna be.." she waved off Patrick's attempts to help her, stumbling towards the bathroom.

The smell was enough to bring it all up, bar peanuts and whiskey coming up sour. Snot and tears littered her face and when she finally devolved into dry heaving, she rested shivering against the wall. "Iris," Patrick's soft voice came from behind the door, knocking politely.

"Are you okay?"

"Hell no, I'm not 'okay.' We had identify a body tonight, Patrick."

There was a long pause, and he whispered, "I know."

Feeling like an ass, Iris struggled to her feet, opening the door and falling into Patrick's waiting arms. She sobbed into his coat, for the first time realizing he'd put it on, and the feeling of her arms around him out above the roaring in her head and the sour taste in her mouth and the cigarette smoke from the other patrons. The cracking of billiards from the neck room split her skull.

"We should go," Patrick cradled her face. "Get you home."

"Matty," she instated, a tiny voice in the back of her mind nagging her about how whiny that sounded.

"Yeah, of course. Matt and I will take you to his place," he said, gently. Bless him. Bless his whole damn family, he was such a sweet guy.

"You're sweet too," Patrick laughed, "in a….charmingly blunt sort of way."

"I said that out loud?" she whispered. He nodded. "I may be a touch drunk."

"Just a touch," he said, taking her arm. "Come on, let's get out of here."

* * *

She'd heard Foggy and Matt jokingly call the steps up to Matt's place "murder stairs" many times, but she'd never believed that statement until she faced them the drunkest she'd ever been in her life. She stumbled on the first step, Patrick catching her as she peddled back, teetering noisily on her heels in an attempt to stay upright.

"Take it easy," Patrick soothed, letting her lean her weight against him. Matty hissed out a breath through his nose, irritation clear.

"Everything won't stop moving," Iris moaned, the world pitching and roiling, and she buried her face in Patrick's chest.

The tears that hadn't stopped flowing since the morgue were soaking through Patrick's shirt as she raggedly whimpered into his coat. Everything pitched upward, her feet no longer on the floor, and she thought it was some sort of terrifying illusion until she realized she was settled into Patrick's arms. She blinked lazily at him. Matty shifted a little, the sharp intake of air suggesting he was going to find some sort of protest, but he ended up saying nothing as Patrick began the upward climb.

Matty's apartment greeted her like an old friend, just the perfect temperature. It smelled familiar, like nothing, and the warm glow of the billboard enveloped her like a hug. "Take her to the bed," Matty said, undoing his tie. His voice was a growl, more devil than she'd ever heard it. She couldn't tell if he was pissed at her. Probably not. Fisk, that was the real source of his rage. "Let her sleep if off. She'll be safe here."

Iris kept silent as Patrick carried her back, gently lowering her into the downy softness of Matty's bed. "Thank you," she whispered, practically melting into the mattress. Patrick reached out, stroking her hair. His hand was warm, his touch centering. She leaned into it.

"Rest," he told her. "You want me to stay until you fall asleep?"

"M'almost there," she admitted. "Get home. Ian needs you."

"I've got it," Matty appeared in the doorway, stiff like a sentinel.

They both knew where he was planning to head, what he was planning on doing with his night. And, honestly, for once Iris couldn't bring herself to worry. To feel anything but the pit of emptiness gnawing at her core.

"Karen said to me, that if there was a God, if He cared, Fisk would get what he deserves," Matty whispered.

Silence followed, Patrick sitting still on the foot of the bed. Iris sat up, a chill running down her spine. She wanted this to end, so badly, to get her head above water for more than two seconds. She was so sick of this sideways emotional rollercoaster of a life.

"Matty," she said quietly. He squirmed, expecting her to talk him out of going out. To try and talk him out of going out, of going after Fisk. But, she wasn't going to do that. So, she surprised herself, anger and alcohol the primary cause of her next words, "Get the son of a bitch."

He didn't move, drawing a centering breath. "Sleep. I'll be back, I promise."

* * *

After falling asleep to Patrick's fingers running through her hair, she dreamt she was standing in the rain.

Her coat was useless against the downpour, sopping as we watched a funeral from the distance. She trekked through the storm, the mourners passing her by as she moved towards the open grave. A little girl was lingering at the edge of the chasm, looking into its depths. When Iris approached, she shivered as she recognized her eleven-year-old self. "It's always ends in death for you," the child mournfully whispered.

Iris followed her younger self's gaze, slapping her hand over her mouth when she saw Fisk lying in the open casket. A jagged sob of relief wrenched itself from her throat, giving way to a shriek of terror when she felt two hands slam down on her shoulders. The iron grip whirled her around, brining her face to face with Dr. Manson.

"I told you this life was over," he growled. "You thought you could get it back?"

"Let me _go,_ " Iris hissed, yanking free only to run into a solid wall of muscle.

"Miss Murdock," Wilson Fisk was standing before her, casually brushing dirt from his suit. "You should have stayed away. You can never find home here. This city swallows everything whole, and now it'll swallow you."

She screamed when he pushed her into the grave, the casket slamming down on her, its loud echo piercing her eardrums as darkness closed in.

* * *

The crash startled her awake, her heart kicking into overdrive. Matty's top sheet was wrapped around her legs, and she did a little wriggle to kick it off, slithering off the bed. She half stumbled, the sheet still stuck to her left leg, but she kicked it off before getting to the doorway of the bedroom. The apartment was dark, still. Silent.

"Matty?" she whispered, her own voice echoing. Bouncing off the angles and corners of an eerily dark apartment. The billboard's hazy light bathed everything.

"Matt, are you okay in there?" Pounding from the door, Foggy's voice ringing into the apartment. "Matt? _Matt_?" she could only faintly hear him, but it was obvious he was full-on frantic. A jostling with the lock, pounding on the door. And then silence, again. Iris breathed heavily into the dark, her senses still doused in an alcoholic haze she hadn't fully shaken.

Moments later, and the rooftop door ripped open, Foggy's form appearing at the top of the stairwell. "Matt," her brother's business partner called into the darkness, "it's me. I heard a crash. Not the fun sexy-time kind, but more of the 'I've fallen and can't get up' variety."

His breathing was fast, labored, as he began to descend. Whenever he stepped into the patchwork of light the billboard cast, she saw sweat sheening on his face. Iris scurried forward into view. "Foggy," she said.

He swore, partially tripping on the last step. "Iris," he caught himself on the rail, blinking slowly at her. "Are you okay? Where's Matt?"

She blinked, still a little drunk and her brain not fully up to the task of coming up with a believable lie. "Food," she slurred, having to drag her tongue through the mud get anything out. "He went out to get…" She hoped he got the gist, because she didn't want to keep talking. She wasn't drunk enough to ignore the beginnings of a killer hangover.

"I heard something," Foggy said. "I think…did someone break in?"

There was a shuffling from the corner, more crashing as something—someone—knocking over an end table. Foggy swore, moving Iris out of the way and rushing for the first "weapon" he could find: Matty's cane, propped neatly up against the wall.

"Foggy," Iris hissed, moving to intercept him. He ignored her, continuing to brandish the cane around.

"If anyone is in here who's not supposed to be, I will mess you up. I'm not kidding," Foggy warned, though the wavering in his voice undermined him a bit.

Shuffling, heavy footfalls onto the floor. Iris squeaked when she saw a tall silhouette stagger into view. Wet, shallow breaths hit her ears, a bloodied husk of Matty struggling to keep himself standing.

"Shit," she swore, trying to rush to him. Foggy was there, dragging her back. He stepped between her and the vigilante.

"Where's Matt?" Foggy demanded. "What did you do to him?"

"Foggy," Iris tried to plead, but he wasn't listening.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen only groaned, collapsing into a sack of deadweight. His weight vibrated through the floorboards. "No," Iris screamed, trying to past her brother's business partner. But, dammit, Foggy was strong when he was determined.

"Iris, don't touch him."

Foggy poked him with the far edge of the cane, but Matty didn't stir.

"Let me go," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand. He needs help. Look at all the blood." This was it, her worst nightmare, coming true. A puddle of crimson, rapidly forming beneath her brother's limp body. She struggled more against the iron grip. "Foggy, let me _go._ " He held her tighter.

"I'm calling the police," he warned, already fishing with for his cell.

"Foggy, _don't_ ," she pleaded.

But he wasn't listening, was already dialing 911.

"Please," Iris whispered. He finally seemed to understand, except now he seemed to be understanding a little too much.

"No," he said, sliding his phone back in his pocket. "No, it can't…"

"Foggy?" she cocked her head to the side. Her eyes darted between Foggy and Matt, and she read the intent in the former's eyes just in the nick of time. Iris scrambled to the vigilante's side, trying to plant a barrier between them.

"Foggy, please. Don't…just…."

But Foggy had already closed the distance, staring at the exposed contours of Matty's face, taking in the familiarity. Foggy knelt down, hesitating before finally peeling back the mask. The Nelson half of the outfit recoiled, like he'd been stung, face running the gambit of emotions so quickly Iris couldn't read any of them before they came and went.

 _"Matt?"_ Foggy whispered.

* * *

 **Not much to say as a far as closing, so I'll just leave it there.**

 **Blessings,**

 **Moonlit.**


	10. Devil's Advocate

**So...**

 **Did you know young people can get shingles? Stressed-out college students can get it too. Aaaaannnnnnnd, having it during finals week is the worst.**

 **That being said….I am finally on Winter Break.**

 **Moonlit it READY for Devil's Kindred to wrap up! Of course, as many of you already guessed, I am not stopping with Season 1. I will be doing Season 2, The Defenders, Season 3, and if we get anything more with Matt Murdock, you best bet Moonlit is going to absorb that into the Devil's Kindred-verse.**

 **Three more chapters of Devil's Kindred and then we're on season 2!**

 **The title of Season 2's installment will be in my closing note.**

 **Nelson v. Murdock is one of my favorite episodes. Mostly because I love Matt and Foggy's friendship and it tears my heart in pieces to see them fight.**

 **Iris's presences shifts things a good deal. It may not be so obvious in this chapter, but Iris is going to have a profound impact on how this situation between Foggy and Matt is played out. There are a lot of lines I still use (because there are a lot of lines I really liked) but the order is altered based on how Iris plays into things.**

 **My favorite episodes are the hardest to write, and this has been no exception.**

 **But, without further ado…enjoy the next installment.**

* * *

 _Devil's Advocate_

Iris was used to her dad coming home bloodied, bruised. Battlin' Jack took some spectacular beatings in his day. Then he'd come home to two kids, devoted and loyal and all too eager to show off their suturing skills. The sibling not suturing would tell stories, crack jokes, lighten the mood. Iris found a certain sense of clarity when she stitched up her dad, because, even though it was unconventional—messed up, even—there was always a sense of….family, togetherness, in these moments. Three Murdocks, dusting each other off, day in, day out. When it was Iris's turn to stitch, she found she approached it with a sense of calm. She remembered those sewing lessons Grandma Murdock had tried in vain to give her.

Stitching was all memories of hard butterscotches, the smell of the old menthols that had permanently seeped into the fabric of Grandma Murdock's couch. And it was her and Matty and their dad in their kitchen, telling stupid riddles or jokes. It was her tracing her eyes over all her dad's visible scars when he tucked her in at night, trying to remember which ones she'd sutured and which ones Matty had.

But this night was a different story.

Watching Claire stich up a bloody, half-conscious, wriggling Matty was none of those things. _This_ was all blood, nothing else. Sheer Murdock stubbornness and Claire's skilled hands about the only things keeping her brother alive. The better of Iris's nighttime hours were spent helping the nurse. Dragging Matty's heavy body up onto the couch, stripping off his shredded costume.

The nurse didn't say much while she worked. She hadn't bothered with pleasantries with Iris, and she seemed to get the picture that Foggy wasn't exactly supposed to find out about all of this. Just about the only thing Claire to either of them involved instructions, a promise to call if things got worse. And then she left when Matty was stable, leaving Foggy and Iris to stew in the newly-made tension by themselves.

Iris looked like an abstract art painting by the end of the ordeal, Matty's blood splotching her clothes in sporadic patterns. Foggy—who had hung back on the fringe, face screwed up in an attempt not to cry—may not have any blood to show for it, but the whole night had been a bitch to him too.

"I'm going to take a shower," Iris managed, knowing Foggy had a million and a half questions and not knowing how much she could—or should—answer. She needed time to process, to regroup. Hell, part of her hoped Foggy would cut out before she was done. Then she wouldn't have to deal with the tension.

She turned the water as hot as she could stand, huddling under the stream. And as soon as the water hit her, so did the weight of her night. That's when she finally started shaking, sliding down the tiled wall. As she watched the blood—Matty's blood—slide into the drain, she let out a jagged breath. She found she couldn't even be that terrified, not really. Not when the worst of it was over. She'd spent so much energy worrying about Matty, agonizing over what could happen, that this latest incident—bloody and gruesome as it was—just left her…numb.

Another day, another time her brother had come back home in one piece….but just barely. By miracles only, really.

The only thing she could really do at this point was cry her eyes dry, pull herself back up, and wait for life to deal its next blow.

She was a Murdock, too, after all. And Murdocks always got back up.

But she didn't even have the energy to cry. She finished her shower, swiping a pair of her sweat pants and old hoodie—leftovers from all the time she'd spent at the apartment—and threw her sopping hair back in a clip.

Foggy was in one of the armchairs when she got out, nursing a beer and staring at Matt's unconscious form. He looked up when Iris came out, then let his gaze shift immediately back to her brother. Iris took the cold shoulder like a champ, breezing into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of her own. She frowned at her choices. The only thing she'd ever give Stick: he was right about Matty's taste in beer utterly sucking.

She popped off the cap, shuffling over to the armchair and settling into the icy silence. Silence she was ready to spend all night weathering.

She only had to wait about three sips of beer before Foggy cracked.

"Have you known long?"

"Since I moved back," Iris shrugged. "The night he saved Patrick's son…I was sort of there when Ian was taken."

"But…he's…." Foggy trailed off. "All this time, pretending to be blind…"

"He's not pretending," she cut him off. "He really is blind. When we were kids, I was there for so many optometrist appointments and surgeries and therapy sessions and…" Iris swallowed past the memories. "No light perception. NLP. I heard that tossed around so many times. As far as Matty's eyes are concerned, he's blind as they come."

Foggy frowned, tossing back another sip of beer.

"But, it's not about his eyes. If understand it correctly, and I'm not sure that I do," she crossed her legs, "when he lost his sight…he gained something. Something beyond the normal 'your other senses compensate' shtick. He's got this….radar….sense…? He says it's like…a world on fire."

"A world on fire?" Foggy snorted.

"He told me not long after the accident that he could hear things, see things, smell things that he shouldn't be able to. We'd heard about other senses growing stronger to compensate, but it was like….his senses never stopped getting stronger. He can tell things. It a bombardment, one he's trained into something useful. To get a readout on the world around him, to use it to his advantage." She looked at Foggy, saw the stony glare on his face, and sighed. "He didn't even tell our dad."

"He told you," Foggy snapped. "And that nurse."

"Matty and I shared everything as kids, Foggy. I don't know what he told you about me, but when we were little—it was Matty and me against the world. Our dad did the best he could, but the best he could meant a lot of late nights, with Matty and I home alone. We took care of each other, did what he had to. There were no secrets. We couldn't afford them." She let that thought sink in, Foggy allowing the silence to continue. It allowed for Matty's ragged breathing to fill the space, and so Iris couldn't stand it for long.

"As for Claire," she said, "she found Matt in a dumpster. She patches Matty up, when the streets get too rough."

Foggy swore, dragging his face across his hands. "The rest, I want to hear from him. He owes me that. I'll wait here with you until he wakes up."

She gave him a lot of credit for knowing she wouldn't leave Matty's side. A pang of pity stabbed through her chest when she looked at him, the shell-shocked numbness reading all over his face. Someone else was feeling what she'd felt ever since moving back, and she wouldn't wish this on anyone.

She didn't even know how to help herself through this situation, let alone Foggy. So she said the only thing she could think of. The words that annoyed her the most, yet the only ones she could find, "I'm sorry, Foggy."

He looked up at her, offering a weak shrug. "It wasn't your secret to tell." They both knew that wasn't what she meant, but the subtle "I'm not pissed at you. At least not as pissed at you as I am at him" was a touching gesture.

"I'm gonna try and a get a little sleep. You should do the same. If you want the bed…"

"Take it," he waved a hand.

"If you need anything…"

"Nothing you can give me," it was bitter-sounding, but the look he gave her was gentle. His world had just been shattered, and she didn't know how to help him. She didn't even know how to help herself.

"Goodnight, Foggy," she whispered, turning on a heel and slipping into the bedroom.

* * *

Patrick called around five, drawing her from the two-hour nap she'd managed to grab. She hadn't even been asleep enough to be disoriented by the call. She groaned, pawing through the sheets. Half of her hoped it was Owen calling—her friend's disappearance had managed to slide to the back of her mind in wake of her brother's latest near-death—but she was still relieved that Patrick was calling. He had a way of making even the shittiest situations seem….marginally less shitty.

"Hey," her voice was a throaty croak. She sounded unfortunately similar to a life-long smoker.

 _"Well, your greeting confirms that question I called to ask."_

"Which is?"

 _"How are you after last night?"_

"Hangovers and trauma are a real a bitch."

There was a pause, and they both knew what was coming next, _"Did Matt…is…."_

"Matt got his ass handed to him and came back with at least twelve more holes in his body than there should be. All of them bleeding."

He swore. " _Do you…need anything?"_

"No," she rolled over onto her back. "Matt's nurse friend patched him up. He's stable. He'll be out of commission for a few days, but he'll live."

 _"So Fisk is…."_

"Still alive and still charming the city with his better tomorrow promises. He's actually got some charity gala coming up…" she realized, with a drop in her stomach, that the gala was tonight.

 _"I know,"_ Patrick said. _"Your roommate texted me yesterday afternoon, asking me to be your plus one. She said you were going to ask me yourself, probably. But after…"_

He trailed off, and Iris was glad that he didn't finish that statement.

"I'm glad she told you," Iris nodded, for once happy about Jo's prying into her love life. "I'm really going to need you tonight."

 _"I'll be there,"_ he assured.

"Thanks, Patrick," the sour feeling in her gut subsided just a bit. "I'll see you tonight."

She hung up, tossing her phone onto the bed and shuffling out into the living room. Foggy appeared to be asleep, so she was surprised to hear him say, "Patrick knows too?"

"It's my fault Patrick knows. He was close to both me and the Mask, and he put two and two together," Iris admitted. "I think Matty is a little irritated that he figured it out. He's wary around Patrick. But, he's a good man. The secret is safe with him."

"Are you two…" Foggy waved his pointer finger…. "you know…"

"Together?" Iris folded her arms. "Yeah. We are."

"And if you're ever…not together...how do you know he won't…"

She knew the exact application, and she shut it down quickly.

"I meant what I said, Foggy. Patrick is a good man. He won't turn Matty in just for revenge."

"Maybe he should turn him in," Foggy whispered. "Maybe I should."

"You don't mean that."

"You don't think I meant all those things I said about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

"I know you did," Iris said. "But that's before you knew that man behind that mask was your best friend."

"I don't even know my best friend. How can I justify all of this with the footage I saw on the news?"

That right there was the million-dollar question.

She only shook her head, falling into the other chair, "He wasn't responsible for those explosions. Those cops he was fighting were dirty, and they weren't dead when he was done with them. And he never shot anyone."

And with that, the silence came back. Foggy conked out about fifteen minutes later, and with that, Iris curled herself up into a ball, trying to reclaim even just a moment of peace before the sun came up.

* * *

She was roused from her stupor by the sound of Matty's groans, strained and throaty. He writhed underneath the blanket she'd covered him with, eyes rolling to the back of his head and back arching. Iris sprang to life, practically tripping over to the couch. She kicked aside the used gauze pads and discarded packing, getting to her brother's side just as he was peeling off the dressing on his side, a particularly nasty stab wound that had been the most worrisome of his injuries, the blood fresh and dark.

"Hey, Squirt," Iris pulled his hand away, replacing the medical tape and securing the bandage. "Take it easy. You're hurt pretty bad."

He ignored her, grabbing onto the back of the couch to try and pull himself into a sitting position.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Foggy's voice sounded from the kitchen. Iris sucked in a breath as he brother's friend slammed the fridge. "Then again, maybe I would. The hell do I know about Matt Murdock?" He came into the living room carrying a beer, tossing back a long swig.

"Foggy," Iris whispered.

"You two stich me up?" Matty decided on his usual tactic—deflection.

"Nope," Foggy fell into the armchair Iris hadn't occupied. "That was your nurse friend. Iris had me get ahold of her. That is, after you took a swing at me for suggesting—quite logically I might add—that we get you to a hospital."

"I don't remember," Matty said.

"Yeah, well you were in pretty bad shape," Iris blew out a breath, her throat tightening at the thought.

"She was hot, by the way," Foggy continued. "But I guess you already knew that."

"Foggy," Matty whispered. "Listen…"

"No, you listen," he cut Matty off. "According to Iris, you're pretty good at that."

"Alright," Iris jumped up. "I know everyone's a bit tense right now, but…"

"Let him finish," Matty whispered. She stayed put, coiled and tensed. "Iris, it's fine." He titled his head in Foggy's general direction, "How much did she tell you?"

"A very confusing tale of something called 'the world on fire.' Which, yeah, not going to lie, sound suspiciously like some form of sight."

"No that….that's not what it is. It's not…"

"No, I get it. No light perception. Other senses give you a layout of the world. But what I don't get is….how much? How much can this heightened radar sense help you? Nothing about this adds up, Matt." Foggy flashed his middle finger right in Matt's face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Matty let out a slow sigh, whispering, "One."

Foggy looked like he'd just been slapped. He backed away from the couch slowly, lowering himself back into the armchairs. "Iris said you told her when you were kids, because it was the two of you against the world, Matt. I was there for you more than she ever was. When you got shitfaced on her birthday, because she wouldn't respond to your attempts to reach out. Yeah, that was me there. So much for you and Iris against the world."

She flinched, those words raking right across very fresh wounds. Her hands balled in her lap, but she didn't say anything. This was her brother's fight, not her own.

Foggy barreled on, unaware of the effect it had on her. "And, what about me and you taking on the world? Was it not enough, all we planned to do? So you had to go outside the law, take your stupid obsession with saving everything and everyone to the streets?"

"Don't bring her into this," Matty said. "You know why she wasn't there. You're mad at me, not her. Don't throw stones in her direction when I'm the one you're mad at. This has nothing to do with her."

"No," Foggy cut him off. "I'm sorry for what I said about you, Iris. But, Matt, you're wrong. This does involve her. She helped Claire stitch you up. She was covered in blood by the end of the night. Your blood."

"I know," he agreed. "I….can smell it. It's been there for….four hours. On a shirt she discarded by my bed. There are four gauze pads on the floor two, all with my blood as well."

Foggy paused. "How do you…."

"It's part of my abilities. I just…it's hard to explain. I _know_ things."

"Things like what?" Foggy snapped.

Matty shifted around, taking a deep, slow breath. "I know you haven't showered since yesterday. But you rinsed your face in the kitchen sink. Iris, however, was in my shower recently. I know you had onions in your lunch two days ago. I know both of you are hungry, tired. And the more I say, the faster your heart beats."

"You can hear a heartbeat from across the room?"

"Always threatened to rat me out with that helpful skillset," Iris deadpanned. "He'd swear he'd tattle on me when I lied to dad."

"Not helping, Iris," Matty muttered, then moved on to answering Foggy's question. "Listening to a heartbeat helps anticipate behavior. Like when someone is going to attack. Or, as Iris so colorfully illustrated, when they're lying."

Foggy took a minute to let that soak in, "That's how you knew Karen was telling the truth, when we first met her at the precinct." He stood up, starting to pace. "You listened to her heartbeat without her permission? You shouldn't be able to do that, Matt! It's invasive. It's…." he stopped on a time, his face dropping. "So, since I've known you, every time I wasn't telling the truth…you _knew?_ And you just played along?"

"Basically." Matt's jaw quivered.

"If you weren't half-dead, I'd kick your ass Murdock," Foggy's decibel level's started to climb. "Am I lying about that?"

Iris caught a tear slip out of her brother's eye as he choked out a breathy, barely audible, "No."

"Come on, Foggy," she stepped up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off.

"Well, glad you can never be lied to," he snapped. "Because let me tell you, Matt. I sucks. It _hurts,_ to know that your own best friend has been keeping something this big from you."

"What did you want me to say, Foggy?" Matt said. "Hi I'm Matt. I got some chemicals splashed in my eyes as a kid that gave me heightened senses."

"Maybe not _lead_ with that," Foggy fell back into his chair. He took a deep breath, tears of his own spilling out. "Who did this to you?"

Matty squirmed under the blankets, dragging himself into a sitting position. Iris wanted to force him to lie back down, but something held her back. "Fisk," Matty muttered. "After Elena, I…."

"You were going to try and kill him, weren't you?" The color drained from Foggy's face.

Iris picked her head up at that, the truth of Matty's intentions last night, how close he could have come to being _exactly_ what Stick had wanted, crossing a line he swore he'd never cross. And Iris had actually _wanted_ that to happen.

"I wanted to, I was going to but…."

"The only reason you didn't was because you were stopped, Matt."

"You want the bastard gone as much as I do," Iris cut in. "Don't pretend like you don't."

"Doesn't mean I'm going to put on a crappy hand-sewn outfit and parkour across the city with murder on the brain!"

"I got the stuff off the internet," Matty sighed.

"So not the point," Foggy snapped, thought everyone already knew that. "You are such a hypocrite. Here you are, talking about going through the system. And at night, you're taking it into your own hands."

"I made a mistake, Foggy. I know that."

"Misspelling Hanukkah is a mistake. Attempted murder is a little something else."

"Shut up. Shut up, both you," Iris snapped, unable to stomach where this conversation was leading. The terrifying truth of what Foggy had just said. "You're both missing the point," Iris shook her head. "Matty, this was all Fisk?"

"No. Nobu too."

"Nobu?" Foggy asked.

"Yeah," Matty said weakly. "I think he's some kind of ninja."

"A ninja."

"I think."

Foggy hopped up, pacing yet again. "What are you _doing,_ Matt? You're a lawyer. You're supposed to be helping people."

"I am…"

"In a mask! You know what they call that? A vigilante! Someone who acts outside of the law."

 _"Karen. Karen. Karen."_

The automated voice on Matt's phone cut in so suddenly, Iris let out a barely audible squeak. Matty started searching, Foggy's eyes darting right towards the chirping device.

Foggy dove for it, but Iris was quicker, swiping the phone before either man could grab it. "Iris," Matt said weakly, but she held up a hand.

She not-so-politley ignored him.

"Hey, Karen."

 _"Iris?"_ confusion was evident in the other woman's voice. _"You sound like hell. Where are the guys? They're super late this morning."_

"Yeah, um, they're at Matt's place."

 _"Everything okay?"_

"No," Iris felt Foggy and Matt focusing solely on her, but she blocked them out. "Matt was in an accident."

 _"What? What happened?"_

"It was a car accident."

 _"Matt was…driving…?"_

"No. No. He got hit."

 _"Okay. I'm coming over…"_

"No," she cut her off. "I, um, actually need someone to run to the pharmacy with me. Pick up a few things. Matt's knocked out on painkillers anyway. He doesn't want too many visitors. I hope you don't take that the wrong way. He likes you a lot, but he's in a lot of pain and needs to rest."

" _No. No, I totally understand. I'll meet you at the pharmacy."_

"Thanks. I'll text you the address."

Iris hung up, tossing Matty's phone onto the couch. "I am going to pick up more bandages, antiseptic, and pain-killers. I get that this is a lot to process, but please keep your shit together long enough to not kill each other while I'm out."

"Thanks, Iris," Matty whispered.

"I lied a lot to sneak around Manson," she shrugged weakly. "I got used to it."

* * *

Karen met Iris on the little pharmacy a few blocks from Matty's apartment. The short walk gave Iris plenty of time to think of and prepare for any questions Karen would ask.

Her brother's employee met her in the aisle with all the painkillers. "Hey," Karen immediately for a hug. "Is everything okay? Is Matt alright?"

"He's holding up," the easiest lies had some truth. Iris internally shivered at the words Owen had once said to her.

"How did it happen?"

"He went for a walk when I was asleep, to try and clear his head. But, he was still a little drunk from last night, and we wasn't paying attention. Car came out of nowhere. There was a glass bottle on the road where he fell to, so….he's got some pretty bad abrasions."

Iris didn't know when, or if, Matty was going to allow Karen to see him, but she figured she'd cover as much as she could.

Karen sighed, looking around the aisle. "You want some good news?"

"Yeah, that would not be the worst thing right now," honesty, even just a touch of it, felt really good.

Karen lowered her voice several notes, "I have a lead."

"A lead?"

"On Fisk. A woman in a nursing home upstate."

"And…"

"I did some digging. I think….I think I may have found Fisk's mother."

"Fisk's…mother?" she repeated. "How did you even…You know what, I don't want to know."

"I could be wrong," Karen held out her hands. "But, it's worth checking out. With your lead in the wind…"

Iris shifted.

"…Sorry, Iris. I didn't mean to.."

"It's okay."

"Anyway, this could be the very thing we need to bring Fisk's story into question."

"You think she's going to give up her own son?" Iris raised an eyebrow.

"She doesn't need to give him up. Just….accidentally poke some holes in his story."

"Matt wouldn't like it."

Karen looked at her feet. "Well, Matt….doesn't have to know."

"Karen," she said, though whatever else she was going to say seemed a little bit too hypocritical. Matt was keeping deadly secrets from Karen, Karen was keeping secrets from Matt. The whole damn Nelson and Murdock family was a mess. And the only way the Iris could think of was to take out Fisk.

Somehow.

"Just…" Iris let out a deep sigh, swiping a bottle of painkillers off the shelf, "bring Ben, okay? And be careful."

"I will, Iris," Karen nodded. "I promise, he can't keep up like this forever. Sooner or later, we're going to find the thing that's going to send Fisk's house of cards tumbling down."

* * *

"I'm back," Iris carried her payload from the pharmacy into Matt's apartment, setting it in the kitchen. She more than a little nervous about what she was going to walk in to, not exactly happy about the way she'd left things. She only found Matt on the couch, in full recline. He was dozing, but his face was still damp with tears. She carried two ibuprofen and water into the living room. No trace of Foggy at all.

"Hey, Squirt," she knelt beside her brother, her voice enough to stir him from sleep.

"Iris," he said, trying to sit up. He hissed, the fresh sutures pulling with the sudden movement.

"Take it slow, Matty," she said. "Those are some real pretty stitches. Don't want to mess them up."

"So you admit to not doing the best sutures in the world," his smile was only half-hearted.

"I consent that I am not as good as a competent medical professional," she set the pills in his hand, guided his other to the glass. "Take those, it'll help. Since you're too stubborn to take the ones Claire left you."

"Iris, I'm too…I don't want to argue right now. I can't."

"We're not going to. We don't have the time for that, trust me. I have a job tonight I've got to get ready for. But you _are_ going to listen to my sisterly wisdom," she kicked off her shoes got under the blanket. He choked out a weak laugh. "Matty, when I found out about The Mask, you were saving a kid from a trafficking ring. When Foggy found out….you were the guy the city was blaming for cop murders and bombs going off. It's a lot to process. You have to know that."

"I do…I do…"

"Matty, you and Foggy are more than friends, more than business partners. You two are family. And, if you and I can come back from the brink, so can you and Foggy."

He didn't respond, his head titled towards the window. Listening to the city in the distance. Tears were falling slowly and steadily now, the bulk probably cried out when Iris was gone. Oddly, it was comforting. She was eleven years old again, sitting up with Matty, listening as sirens sang them lullabies.

"Remember that game we used to play," Matty whispered. "When we heard a siren, we'd try and guess where it was going to. What it was for."

"Yeah, I remember," she nodded. "We stopped playing after…"

"Because after the accident, I could tell just how many sirens there were, Iris. The more years that passed, the more I realized just how much pain there was in this city. It gets hard to take after awhile. But, for a long time I was able to keep my head down. Not fight, just like dad wanted us to." He sighed. "Then, right after I stopped working for Landman and Zack, I heard it. A little girl, crying a few buildings over. Her father…liked to go to her room late at night, when his wife was asleep."

Iris flinched at that. "Shit."

"I called social services, did everything within the law. But the mom…she wouldn't believe it. Said it wasn't true. And that Dad? He was smart. Never left a mark on her. The law didn't do anything for that little girl."

"But you did?"

"He spent the next month in the hospital, eating through a straw. He never touched his daughter again."

"I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"People like Ian, like that little girl…I can't—won't—listen to them cry without doing anything. Not anymore. Our dad, he was a great man. And this city—as much as I love it—this is city is what took him away from us. I can't let that happen if I know I can prevent it."

"I know, Matty," she said. "I know."

* * *

She left Matty sleepy, getting back to her apartment with not nearly as much cushion as she wanted. Jo practically pounced on her when she came through the door. "Murdock, where have you _been_? Patrick and Tomas are coming in an hour."

"Sorry, Jo," Iris tossed down her purse. "My brother was…sort of in an accident. He's fine, but…"

"Oh my gosh! I am so sorry!" Jo grabbed Iris in a bone crushing hug. "Is there anything I can do?"

Iris sighed, trying to gather what little strength she had to get through the night. "Yeah. Let me borrow your curling iron."

An hour later, after Iris had curled her hair to submission and wrestled herself into her nicest gown—a red chiffon—Patrick and Jo's boyfriend, Tomas, showed up at their apartment door.

Iris let the other couple walk on ahead, savoring a few minutes with the only one who knew exactly what the past few days had held for her.

"You look beautiful," Patrick said.

"You look pretty dapper yourself," she offered a weak smile.

"Hey," he caught her arm, whirling her around. "If you don't want to do tonight…"

"I promised Jo. And I don't exactly have much a reputation in the city yet. It'll look bad if I bail on easily one of the biggest jobs since I moved back," she shook her head. "Besides, distraction is good. Very good. As in, there will be drinks at this party."

"Because we saw how together drunk you is," Patrick gave her a faint smile, which finally managed to get a small laugh out of her.

"Fair. I'll have to settle for using my arm candy to keep my mind off of things."

"Hey, you two," Jo called from the elevator. "Hurry it up, Fisk's people sent around a limo for us! Don't want to keep our driver waiting."

"We'll get through tonight together," he whispered in her ear, before the two climbed in the elevator.

* * *

Iris and Jo were tuning when she got the message. Her phone buzzed, displaying a message from an unknown number. A sound file. Given her brother activities, Iris was not about to let this one wait. "Hey," Iris waved Jo to stop. "I have to use the restroom really quick. Be back in just a minute."

Iris swiped her phone and clutch, weaving her way through the ornately set tables. The place was fancy enough to have bathroom attendants, so Iris had to lock herself in a stall to play the message. Turning the volume all the way on low and pressing her speaker right next to her ear, she let the foreboding sound bite play.

Her head spun with dizzying relief when she heard "Fly Me To the Moon" faintly play.

* * *

"Everything okay?" Patrick asked once Iris and Jo were finished tuning. He handed both women waters, a gesture Iris very much appreciated given her spinning head.

"Fine," she untwisted the cap, throwing back a swig. When he gave her a skeptical look she added, in a whisper, "We'll talk later. I promise."

"Okay," Jo tapped Iris on the shoulder. "Vanessa's waving us over. Showtime, Beautiful."

For the first time in a long, _long_ time, she didn't hear Manson's voice nagging her faintly in the back of her skull the second she touched her lips to her reed. There were too many other things, louder things, drowning it out. Like someone had kicked a hornets nest inside her skull.

And she did the only she knew how to do to keep it from killing her.

She centered herself, she thought of nothing but music. She shut up her brain and played.

Damn if it wasn't some of the best playing Iris had ever done. She had been through so much over the past few months, and her only way to speak out against it all was to just…make music. Order in chaos. Offering a rhythm, a melody, into a discordant world. It was satisfying, dizzying. And it was a prayer. She'd run out of words, way to express her thoughts on her state of mind. So she stopped speaking and just….played.

It was a moment of clarity, gone too soon.

"You sounded great," Patrick whispered in her ear, drawing her to his side as applause for her and Jo faded into applause for Fisk, striding up to the front of the room to officially open the evening.

"A thank you," the "man of the hour" titled his head in the musicians' direction, "to Miss Murdock and Miss Zhou for providing us with a lovely start to our evening." More applause, polite and short. Iris pasted on a smile, inclining her head in acknowledgment before fading into the background with her roommate.

"There are those," Fisk continued, "that question why a man such as myself, a man who values his privacy, would willingly subject himself to the public eye." He looked to Vanessa, seeking reassurance. Such a simple gesture, such normal behavior, for a desperate man who'd senselessly beaten her brother to a pulp just the previous night. " _I_ question the man who wouldn't step forward, when his city—his _heart—_ is in such a time of need. With your help we can ensure that everyone, who has affected by the recent attacks, and all who call Hell's Kitchen their home, will see a brighter day. I thank you, and please enjoy your evening."

More applause, Fisk melding into the ranks. Serving trays started going round, music piping in from overhead. A waiter approached them, "Champagne, Sir? Miss?"

"I'm not much of a bubbly man," Patrick held up his hand. "But, Iris?"

"I'd love some," she smiled, charmingly. She was so good at being artificially charming. She took the flute, tipping it in thanks towards the waiter before he kept on his rounds. As expected, it tasted rich, expensive. Pretentious.

She took a second swig.

It had a bit of an interesting aftertaste, but people with money would down arsenic for the sake of status.

"You know, that's the first time I've heard you play," Patrick noted.

"Truth be told," she shrugged, "that's the first time I've _really_ played in years."

"I'd toast to that, but…"

"It's terrible champagne anyway. I think I'm regretting it already," she shrugged. Instead of going down warm and sparkly, it had gone down a little….jaggedly. She wasn't feeling _buzzed,_ but heat was rushing through her veins.

"Iris," Jo, dragging her boyfriend along behind her, trotted up to the couple. "I just found our table. Guess who we're seated next to?"

"Uh…" Iris trailed off, tripping right into Patrick as the world pitched sideways.

"Whoa," he steadied her, but the world was rapidly slipping away. Her dress felt like it was tightening around her, her airways slowly constricting. Her glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the edge of her sensed. She faintly heard a thudding, people screaming. One by one, guests began to fall.

She was spilling out of herself, every major organ trying to rip itself from her insides. Her head was becoming a pressure cooking, trying to turn her brains to soup. Where had her knees gone? She couldn't feel them anymore.

 _"Iris,"_ she was vaguely aware of Patrick screaming her name, but she was lost. She fell over, the blackness catching her in its cold, unforgiving arms.

* * *

 **Yeesh, writing this felt like a marathon.**

 **Annnnywaaay, this story has picked up some traction lately and it's really exciting. My beautiful readers, you guys are seriously the best!**

 **Which is why I am glad to tell you the name of the next installment of Iris's story...**

 **Devil's Penance**

 **I've got a lot of plans for Season 2. Particularly excited to work with Elektra and The Punisher.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed!**

 **Drop a review if you want! I love hearing from you guys!**


	11. Devil's Trap

**Alright, I sort of know I am kind of the worst at consistent updates I am sorry this chapter took so long. My semester has been murder. Fortunately, I am on Spring Break, so now I am finally able to sit down and write.**

 **And….**

 **Hi, friends.**

 **All 100+ of you!**

 **I was stoked to finally reach the triple digit benchmark of followers! What an honor. I didn't know what to expect from this story when it came to me, but wow! Thank you all so much!**

 **I know this update has taken awhile, but** _ **yet again**_ **lots of stuff in my personal life has demanded my attention. I have had so many balls in the air this semester, and the long and short of it is that I am EXHAUSTED**

 **So, here we go with the next chapter.**

 **As I was writing, I realized that these last chapters are going to divulge more from the episodes than normal here, and my own plot threads are going to take over. I'm kind of doing a mosaic of plot points from the last three episodes for these final chapters. No drastic alterations to cannon, but, like Nelson and Murdock, Iris being here does shift events a touch.**

 **This chapter is rife with angst, my friends. Not going to lie, I deal with a heavy topic. But, given Iris's backstory does that surprise you all? Just be warned, I don't want to inadvertently trigger anyone.**

 **Anyway, sorry again for the wait, and I hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

 _Devil's Trap_

Iris woke with a hand clutching hers, gripping it like a lifeline.

Climbing to consciousness was an arduous hike, the effort of just waking up leaving her immeasurably weary. The world was hazy, an intense heaviness in her body gluing her to the paper-thin mattress. Scratchy sheets assisted in keeping her captive. Something stabbed at her nostrils, wrapping all the way around her face, and when she raised her free arm—the one without a death-grip on its hand—to feel and investigate, she felt the stab of an IV. That was all the effort she was willing to give. The burn of antiseptic plagued her senses, a chill in the air reaching right under her covers.

All of it felt oddly familiar. Her mind was liquid, sloshing inside of her skull, submerging the waking world. She was floating in and out of herself, ricocheting between the hazy existence of the present and fractured memories of the past.

A faint recollection of waking up after a tonsillectomy, and her father by her bedside. He'd smiled gently at her when she awoke, stroking her hair and saying, "You did good, Sweetie. Just rest."

She thought she heard his voice now, whispering fervent prayers. Almost felt his rough, calloused hands cradling hers. It took her a few seconds, a few slow blinks, to realize she was feeling those sensations. And the man at her bedside, holding her as if it was just his grip keeping her in this world….

"Matty," the name stabbed every free inch of her throat on the way out. Her voice reflected the struggle, fractured and weak.

The prayers instantly stopped. His grip on her tightened. "Iris."

"….What….?" There was a full sentence in there somewhere, but whatever was stabbing at her nose and constricting her face was annoying. Too heavy. She reached up for it again. Matty finally let go of her one hand just to guide the other away. "Why…is…"

"Leave it," he said. It sounded like begging.

"Um," words were hard. "Kay."

"How do you feel?"

She took stock of that. Leaded, useless limbs. Abraded throat. A heavy weight in her chest. And, then there was her _head_ …"Hurts," seemed to be the only assessment.

"What hurts?"

She snorted, "Yes."

He sighed, letting out a nervous chuckle. Too nervous. She recognized the dizzying relief that could only come after terror. The terror she felt every time she'd been afraid of losing him.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked.

The events of the gala collided back to her. Cleaving to Patrick, her airways suddenly constricting. Her head igniting with a wildfire migraine. But beyond that… "No, I…"

"The champagne, at Fisk's benefit. It was poisoned. Emergency medical personnel arrived on the scene quickly, but three people have died already. Patrick stayed with you the whole time. He…um," Matt's lower lip was trembling… "he was pretty freaked out when he called me, Iris. For awhile there, they weren't even sure if you were going to make it. They…um.." another break in his voice.. "Patrick said they were asking about a priest…"

She let that sobering thought sink in. Decided to replaced it with another, "Where's Patrick?"

"He left about an hour ago. His son's been staying with his sister. He's been here pretty constantly, but I told him to go get some sleep. He's been really worried." A pause. "How long have you two been….together?"

"Not long," she shrugged weakly. "How….long have I been out?"

"Four days."

"Oh," she breathed.

"Your roommate came by a couple of times. Andy was here. Mr. Aldridge. Karen's been by a lot, Foggy too. He…uh…doesn't speak to me much. Not more than a few words. Be at least he's here."

"That's a start."

His lip was still quivering, his jaw clenched.

She shook her head, "Have you been here the whole time, Matty?" Had the devil been out, seeking retribution? That was the side of that question she didn't have the energy to say out loud.

"They wouldn't let me in until they were sure you were stable," he said, "which was yesterday. But yeah, I've been here since I got the call. Hospital chairs are not the best beds, but I've been doing a lot of mediating."

"You meditate? Seriously?"

"Don't be a smartass."

"That's, like, my _one_ personality trait," she squirmed a bit under the covers, uncomfortable. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Iris, I can't see either of us and I know you look worse."

Her only response to that was a lengthy groan. She certainty _felt_ like shit…

"I really should get a someone, let them know you're awake," Matty said.

She noticed how slowly he got out of the chair. He was donning sweats and a hoodie, something Iris hadn't seen him wear outside of his apartment, and he moved with a disconcerting stiffness. The swelling under his right eye was obvious even with his glasses on. She'd seen him bounce back unnaturally quickly from a lot of tough beatings, but his run-in with Nobu hadn't exactly been a typical night as The Devil. Not to mention that fact that he'd apparently been living in hospital chairs for the past four days.

"Matty," she sighed. "Now that I'm awake, _please_ get some rest."

He paused by the door, "I won't be long." And he left.

Iris let out a sigh, flopping her head back against her pillow. She was reminded of all those years ago, sleeping curled up at Matty's side in a hospital bed. Wrestling him into a hug every time he woke up, screaming about not being able to see. Shushing him, reminding him that if the nurses heard, they'd sedate him. To breathe, just breathe, Matty. Listen to my voice.

He came back with Claire a few minutes later, who was wheeling a medical cart along with her. "You know," the nurse folded her arms, cocking a half smile. She was holding a chart in her hands, probably Iris's. "Most siblings try and outdo each other in normal ways. Sports, grades. You two have to channel your sibling rivalry with near-death experiences."

"Murdocks are an unconventional breed," Iris shrugged.

"Well," Claire claimed the chair Matty had been using, "maybe I gotta get the Catholic thing going, because you two clearly have a God on your side."

"He's not done with us yet," Iris muttered.

Claire only made a humming noise, leaning back in her chair. "Most of the real unpleasant shit is over, but we're still going to want to keep you here for a little while. Make sure you're well and truly out of the woods. You're real lucky. Apparently, giving death the proverbial finger is a family talent."

"We're contrary sons of bitches."

Claire only laughed. "Well, I'm really here to give you another dose of meds. Take some vitals and blood work."

"Needles," Iris rolled her eyes. "Wonderful."

Turns out, Claire Temple was one of those magical creatures that finds veins right away and makes a needle barely hurt. Should've figured. Vigilante stitching badass who was also really good at taking blood samples…

 _Shit,_ they clearly had Iris on the good stuff, and the new dose—just injected into her IV port—was taking effect.

"That oughta do it. There's a button by your bed if you need me for anything."

"Claire," Matty said, making then nurse pause half way to the door. She looked over her shoulder. "Thank you."

"Take care of yourself. Both of you."

Matty kept quiet, heads still tilted toward the door after she'd gone.

"I'm sorry things between the two of you didn't work out," Iris said.

"She'll still be there, to patch me up when I need her," Matty shrugged. "But, yeah…I'm sorry too. I think it's for the best."

"Best for her or best for you?"

He gave her a twisted smile, standing up. "I'm going to get some food." The weight of the last four days was clear when he stood. His normally well-groomed stubble was a patchy mess. And before today she'd never seen him out in public in less than a dress shirt and decent pants. Now he was wearing a hoodie and old sweats, his gym clothes. And she didn't have to have a radar sense to know he hadn't had a real shower or changed in a few days.

"Do yourself a favor and go ahead and grab eight to ten hours of sleep as well. Maybe, like, a shower. You look and smell like a frat bro."

"Iris…."

"Matty, we're gonna make a rule that only one Murdock can resemble a corpse at a time. And, since I have earned my turn, you had best take care of yourself. You don't get the monopoly on near-death experiences, Little Brother." She hoped he gave in, because she really didn't have the energy to go the distance with Murdock tenacity. Being awake, even for a short stint, was taking way more out of her than she'd care to admit. The drugs weren't helping either. "Have you seriously been coming here after your nights out as…you know."

"What else was a I supposed to do?" Matty asked. "I needed answers, and if I went home, if I stayed still, I would have driven myself crazy, wondering if you were gonna…"

"And we're stopping right there," Iris cut him off. "Did you find anything while I was out?"

"The bottom of humanity," Matt whispered.

"Um, please elaborate on that cryptic-ass statement."

"Another facet of Fisk's….network. Chinese heroin trade. Ben pointed me in that direction. Madam Gao, the woman who runs it….she blinds her employees."

"Oh…"

"The warehouse burned, made the news and everything, but I'm not any closer to a way to take out Fisk. I'm starting to think…I'm starting to think there may not be a way…."

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But you _know_ that accepting defeat isn't how Murdocks handle shit. Never has been. I'm glad you didn't succeed in killing Fisk. And, I certainly don't think it's the only way to end this. It ain't about how you hit the mat…"

"Our childhood is over, Iris."

"Don't I know it," she countered. "Our dad was a lot of things, Matty, but one of those things was determined. And resilient. He could take a beating better than anyone and, when he came back, give it back twice as strong. And you're a hell of a lot like him. You'll find a way. Murdock's always get back up."

He was silent for a long time, stone still as ever. "You know one of the first things Claire said to me, that night she found me?"

That seemed like another era, so long ago.

"What?"

"That my outfit sucks."

She gave a throaty laugh, "I knew I liked her."

"When I faced off against Fisk, I sliced his jacket open. And, there was this…armor in the lining. Light and tough. I've been thinking that…maybe if I'm gonna stand a chance, I'm going to need something like that."

"It's a start," she shrugged. "But, for real, _shower first_."

His shoulders sagged. "I texted Patrick that you were awake," he said. "He'll be over soon. When he gets here I'll…go home for a while. Rest, get cleaned up."

"Thank you."

He offered a half smile, grabbing his cane.

"And one more thing," she said. He paused, raising his eyebrows.

"I know it looks bleak," she said. "But, apparently, the fact that I'm alive is proof miracles happen. Fisk is gonna get what's coming to him. And, deep down, I know you're going to be the one to do that."

* * *

"Iris, young lady, you scared me half to death," Grandma Murdock scolded, grabbing her by the arm. Matty was sheepishly tailing along behind her. "Don't ever run off on me like that again!"

Iris looked at her grandmother's face, studying all the lines and wrinkles. And yet her eyes, unchanged from all the pictures Iris had seen. Her grandmother had been so pretty in her younger days. Her eyes were so beautiful. Even when they were firm, even when she was scolding her grandchildren.

A noise to her left startled Iris, the hazy picture of a hospital room coming into focus. A figure—dressed in a hoodie and jeans, not scrubs—standing by her IV port, injecting something into the line. A soft brush of lips on the top of her head.

"You're gonna be okay," a familiar voice whispered. Air tickled through her hair.

"Owen," the name tumbled from her mouth, slightly garbled. She was asleep, this wasn't real. A dream, all a dream…

"You'll be okay, Iris."

She let her head loll back onto her pillow, a strange warmth humming through her body.

* * *

Foggy came by the next morning, right after an unfamiliar nurse did a lot of poking and prodding and dropped off Iris's crappy hospital-issue breakfast. Her brother's friend looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavy weight. Well, heavyweight booze. He lingered in the doorway at first, stiff. Clearly wanting to turn tail and run.

"I told Matt to go home and rest. You're not going to run into him."

"Is he really getting rest, or…"

"Honestly, I have no idea," Iris shrugged. "Come in here, you're starting to weird me out."

"Is Patrick here?"

"Talking to Ian. He'll be awhile. Why, here to confess your undying love for me and you don't want my boyfriend or my vigilante brother to hear it?"

Foggy rolled his eyes. "Seriously, you make the worst jokes, Murdock. But…I'm, glad you're still around to make them." He finally crossed the threshold, but kept to the wall, hands jammed into his jacket pocket. "Matt texted me that you were awake. I wanted to come by earlier, but…"

"You two still doing the Nelson vs. Murdock thing?"

"That we are. And currently, Nelson is a kind of a dick. At least, that's what Karen says."

"I go under for four days and it all goes to shit."

"Yeah, you're the glue that holds us together," Foggy deadpanned. Iris unceremoniously flipped him off.

When he only gave her a weak smile, she changed angles, "Do you think you and Matty will ever work things out?"

Foggy finally came to the bed, collapsing into the chair Matty had been using. "I got a sign made up for us. A real one, not a crappy sharpie one. I threw it in the trash."

"So, a rough patch."

"A really rough patch."

Iris grabbed his hand, making him flinch. He looked at her, his eyes rimmed with tears. "There were so many days I never thought I'd see my brother again. But if there was any good that came out of those years, it's that I learned to never throw away someone important. Because you never know. You and Matt, your friendship is bigger than this. And we still have to catch Fisk, so…you're bound to work it out."

"Foggy," they both looked up at Karen's voice, the last member of the Nelson and Murdock team standing in the doorway, puffy-eyed and red-nosed.

"Karen," Iris let go of Foggy's hand.

The blonde crossed the room, grabbing Iris into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're okay," she let out a shuddering breath, the smell of alcohol wafting from her.

"Whoa, Karen," Iris broke the hug, looking into the woman's eyes. "Hitting the hard stuff?"

Karen shrugged weakly, looking to Foggy. "Lot of that going around." She looked back to Iris, something burning in her eyes.

"Foggy, go get coffee," Iris said.

He stiffened for a moment, eyes darting between the two women, but eventually he relented. "I'm suddenly finding myself in need of caffeine. I'll be back. In, and this is totally random guess, ten minutes? Coincidentally, only coincidentally, the prime time for cryptic girl talk."

Iris rolled her eyes at his retreating back, before turning to Karen. "So, what is it?"

Karen froze, looking at her lap. "I can't….it's…." a jagged sob tore out of her throat. "Iris, I had to do something terrible. I…I…"

"You what?"

Floodgates opened, Karen shaking her head.

"Yeah, I know. Things are a bit of a fustercluck right now."

"Fustercluck?" Karen snorted, breaking into a half-smile.

"That one always worked on Owen, too. First time I said it, he spit milk out of his nose."

Another strained laugh.

"I'm serious. It was the best and most disgusting thing I'd ever seen." Iris took Karen's hand. "What happened?"

"I can't talk about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"Okay," Iris nodded. "Okay. Fair."

Karen paused. "What's….what's Fisk like up close?"

"Scarily normal," Iris admitted.

"Were you doing this for Nelson and Murdock? Taking jobs that put you close to him?"

"Yes," there was not point in lying. She wanted to say she didn't have the energy for it, but given the circumstances, and how she'd felt last time she woke up, she was actually feeling….better.

She tried not to let her mind wander, to focus on the conversation.

"Do you regret it?"

"No, I don't."

She'd do it again, if she'd known it was going to help Matty bring Fisk down. Even the slightest chance…..

Maybe she was more like her father than she'd thought.

* * *

Half of her day was spent sleeping, the other half talking to her revolving door of visitors. It was a dull routine, but all the rest was clearly helping. Maybe it was optimism, or maybe the prayers she knew were being offered on her behalf, but Iris could have sworn she was starting to feel a little bit stronger with every passing hour. Each time she woke up, the world was just that little bit less hazy.

"It's Breeny," Patrick sighed, looking at his phone. It was nearly eight in the evening now, and they'd been talking about basically nothing. "She's probably…"

"You can go, you know. Matty's coming back in the morning, and I am probably going to be drifting off soon anyway."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Iris nodded. "Ian needs you more than I do. And he's probably better company anyway."

Patrick laughed, getting out of the chair and sitting on the edge of her bed. He leaned down, kissing her forehead. "Take care, okay?"

"I will," she assured. "You know how stubborn I can be."

"Yes, I'm starting to learn," he took her hand, rubbing his thumb gently along her palm. "And, I look forward to learning more…"

The phone stopped ringing, chiming a few seconds later to indicate a voicemail. A sour feeling settled in Iris's stomach, thinking of the little boy Patrick had waiting for him back at home. Of all that she'd let into Patrick's life since they'd met. It should have ended with Matty bringing Ian back. It should have been over. And now…

"I'm poison," Iris whispered.

Patrick froze, blinking at her. "What?"

"I'm toxic. This, right here," she made a vague, all-encompassing gesture, "this is what happens to Murdocks. We cheat death, over and over, until we can't. And then it comes for us."

"Iris…"

"I can't abandon Matty, and he's not going to abandon this city. I can't guarantee something like this won't happen again."

"I'm not asking you to. I knew what I was getting into."

"You've come so far, made a life for yourself. I can't….I can't hurt you. Not like Delilah did. I can't be the thing that ruins you."

He was probably only quiet for a second or two, but to Iris is felt like an eternity. He stared at the floor, finally taking a long, deep breath. "You won't hurt me like Delilah did. I know you're not like her." He dropped her hand, rolling up his left sleeve. Right on his forearm, a patch of rough, raw skin, silver-dollar sized. A burn scar.

"This is the only permanent mark," he said.

Iris's breath hitched, and she wasn't able to tear her eyes away from him as he continued.

"Delilah was a high-school sweetheart. A week after we graduated, she told me she was pregnant. So we got married. By the time that happened I'd gotten really good at explaining away bruises. This mark, right here, is one of many she'd left, but it's the one I remember most. She'd planned this dinner for our anniversary, a really nice restaurant across town, the kind you needed reservations for months in advance. I got held up at work, this house way across town, got back late." He shrugged. "She wasn't happy."

Iris was speechless.

"I'm glad this is the mark that stuck, because the night she did this…something inside me woke up. I finally realized what this relationship had done to me. And it was the night I took Ian and left."

"Patrick…"

"I've worked through a lot. I've done the whole blaming myself thing. Not anymore. I learned to debunk the lies I told myself. That I was weak for 'letting' it happen. Not anymore. I'm stronger now than I've ever been." He looked her square in the eyes, grabbing her hand again. "Iris, losing you would hurt. A lot. But I've been through a lot. No one gets to break me, intentionally or otherwise. Not even you. I've chosen to explore a relationship with you and, trust me, that took a lot. I'll be okay, Iris. No matter the outcome. I've tasted real poison, and you're not it."

"Patrick," she gently cradled his face, "thank you for sharing. I…" words failed her, so instead she kissed him. It wasn't exactly an orchestra-swelling moment, with the stupid nasal cannula making an annoying barrier between them, her lips a little dry and cracked. She didn't even want to think about her breath. But, even so, he kissed her back, gentle and loving. Fingers tangling through her hair. When they finally broke, he rested his chin on her head, holding her close.

"Never," he whispered, "think you're anything to me but a blessing, Iris."

* * *

When she saw Owen, shrouded by layers of drugs and sleep, she thought she was dreaming again. He was lingering by the IV port again, but this time he wasn't alone. Someone else, a total stranger, was standing at her bedside. She shifted a little, the pinch of her needle letting her know that she was truly awake.

"Owen?" she whispered.

He froze at the sound of her voice, leaning down to her level. "Hi." Something was wrong, very wrong. He looked terrified. "I'm sorry, Iris. I'm so sorry."

"That's enough, Lover Boy. We gotta bring her in," the stranger growled. "Inject her and let's go."

"Owen?" Iris's heart kicked up a pace when he refused to look at her as he unhooked her IV, stripped off the nasal cannula. She expected alarms to sound, but nothing happened. Owen a syringe out of his pocket, a strange dark liquid swimming inside.

"This is helping, I promise." Her veins rushed with warmth, her body going heavy.

"Owen," she whimpered, her body going limp. Consciousness slipping away. For a terrifying second, she thought she'd been poisoned again. She wanted to scream, call out, but her friend laid a hand across her mouth. She looked into his eyes, finding in them nothing but fear and regret.

"Iris, I'm so sorry. You just gotta trust me."

And she was gone, flowing back into sleep like an outgoing tide.

* * *

She woke-up on a crusty couch, staring at a high-vaulted ceiling. She'd been changed from a hospital gown into sweats and an old shirt—she really didn't want to think about who'd changed head—and, like all the other times she'd come to, she felt better than before. Physically.

Mentally, she was losing her shit.

She sat up, maybe a little too fast, her mind kicking into over gear when she saw her surroundings. She'd been moved to an abandoned building, a prison of graffiti-laden concrete. She wasn't exactly sure how this dump hadn't been condemned. Then, it occurred to her that is probably _had_ been.

Strangers in suits surrounded her on all sides, stoic and closed-lipped. They stared at her when she stood up, but said nothing.

"Where the hell…."

"Iris," Owen's voice sent waves of rage through her body, and she turned on her friend, winding up a wicked right hook. It connected with his face, coaxing out a satisfactory yelp from him. He staggered back, cradling his face.

"Geeze," he moaned.

Laughter to her left. Iris turned her head to a see a small fold-out table, one of the nameless suits leaning forward to get a look at her. His was older, dark skinned and dark eyed, and she swore she'd seen him somewhere before. "I personally think you had it coming, Danvers."

She turned the man, trying to muster up some courage. Look scary. Channel a bit of her own Murdock devil. "Who the hell are you? Where the hell am I?"

"Iris," Owen spit on the floor. "Detective Carl Hoffman."

"Hoffman," Iris's half-drugged brain took a second to put the pieces together, to retrace her steps. The crooked cop that had killed his partner under Fisk's orders. Detective Blake's partner and murderer. And a witness that could blow down Fisk's house of cards.

Once the realization caught up to her, anger rose up in its place, and she whirled right back on Owen. She gave him a good shove, and he took it. Shuffling back a step.

"I don't want to fight you, Iris. Just let me talk."

"You have two seconds before I go full Murdock on your ass," she was surprised how much of a growl was in her voice. Matty's devil side was wearing off on her.

"Listen, it wasn't supposed to be like this," Owen pinched the bridge of his nose. "When I…" a hesitation, side-eying the guards in the room… "when I decided to turn on Fisk, I wasn't sure where to go. Leland Owlsley was like a shark in the water. Not sure how he found out I was trying to turn on my boss, but he did. And he scooped me up. Hoffman, too. Leverage against Fisk."

"You're being saved….for a rainy day?" Iris let her gaze pass between the two men.

"Essentially," Owen shrugged. "Here's the thing. Owlsley is up to his ears in sketchy shit right now. That poison you drank? It was intended to kill Vanessa Marianna. You and the other that ingested it were decoys, meant to make it look like an attempt on Fisk's life."

"Why would Owlsley want Vanessa dead?"

"Fisk's…associates thought she was a distraction, preventing him from leading their operation. They wanted her gone. But it backfired. She lived, and if Fisk finds out Owlsley had in a hand in trying to off Vanessa…"

"So you two," Iris gestured between Owen and Hoffman, "you're leverage?"

"Basically," Hoffman shrugged.

"So that doesn't explain why I'm here," Iris could tell her glares were starting wear on Owen. It was killing him to see her so pissed. Well, good. Kidnapping her was a dick move.

"Because our compliance isn't free, Sweetheart," Hoffman cut in. Iris wanted to punch the guy, knock of his smug grin, but she held back. "Fisk's a dangerous guy. Courage has a price."

"I made this deal to save you, Iris," Owen said. "After you took the poison, I agreed to help Owlsley if and only if you lived. So he pulled some strings, asked Madam Gao…"

"Heroin lady?"

Owen's expression didn't shift a bit. "Madam Gao's hold is far beyond that, Iris. But yeah. Her. Anyway, her end of things has…resources. Things that could bring you back from the brink. And did…"

"So what you injected into me was…"

"Healing you, yes. We had to wait until you were stable enough to bring you in. But you're here for you safety. Fisk is about to be on the warpath, Iris. And Owlsley's building his defense. We're his most prized possessions at the moment, we're being locked up tight. Until Fisk is no longer a threat." She noticed something in Owen's eyes, something he wanted to say, but couldn't. Not with Hoffman and Owlsley's men all around them.

"Or Fisks finds us and kills us," Hoffman shrugged. "Should've left your little girlfriend in her hospital bed."

Iris cocked her head to the side.

"You're wrong, Hoffman. We're safe here," Owen shook his head. "True, you could say, that….well, some might turn Hell's Kitchen upside down looking for this place. But Owlsley's put all his chips on this. To find it someone would have to be _very_ determined."

It all slid into place.

 _Holy shit, Danvers._

Of course Matty would go tearing up Hell's Kitchen looking for her. He'd do whatever it takes, an when he found her….he'd find just the witnesses he'd needed to bring down Fisk. It seemed like innocent enough terms. Owen protecting someone he cared so deeply about. But Owlsley was unknowingly protecting a Trojan horse.

Iris was the beginning of Fisk's downfall.

As long as Matty found her in time.

* * *

 **Annnd, here we go.**

 **Two more chapters left. Coming down the homestretch.**

 **Let's hope my crazy schedule lets them get it to you guys quickly.**

 **Hope you enjoyed and love you all**

 **-Moonlit**


	12. Like A Bat Out of Hell

**So…um…**

 **Yeah, okay it's been awhile. Again.**

 **So, I was in the musical at my school, and it turned out to be a HUGE undertaking. We did Seussical, which was probably the most fun I've ever had in my life. Then, before I knew it, finals happened.**

 **I just finished my last exam today and celebrated by**

 **having a migraine (not so fun) and**

 **finishing this chapter (considerably more fun)**

 **Now, it is time for a summer of gainful employment before I start my final year of college! Yay!**

 **One more chapter left after this one!**

* * *

 _Like a Bat Out of Hell_

"Breakfast."

Hoffman's voice ripped through Iris's hazy sleep. She squinted up at the crooked cop, who was currently hovering over her, holding a white paper bag in his hands. She groaned, sitting up. Her back popped a little with the motion, every muscle in her body knotted from days sleeping on the old couch, and she brushed past Hoffman, right to the small little card table where Owlsley's captives ate their meals.

As usual, any identifying information as to where the food came from had been removed. Not that Iris could communicate to anyone where she was even if she _knew._ When Owen and Hoffman said they were valuable to Hoffman, they weren't kidding. He was keeping his lifelines locked up tight.

Owen came to the table, scraping his chair across the floor slowly. "Papers," he said, dropping a stack of newspapers out for the group to see. Owsley's men always brought in several, from all over the city, again obscuring their location, but letting the group at least keep some contact with the outside world. Keep a hold of their sense of time.

Iris zeroed in on the front page of _The New York Bulletin,_ right on top of the stack. " _Devil of Hell's Kitchen on the Warpath,"_ Hoffman read the headline that had caught Iris's eye.

"Apparently he's been quite active these past few days," Owen said. "Wonder what he's looking for."

Iris ignored his terrible attempt at subtlety, reaching for the paper and hoping she didn't appear too eager. "Warpath" was right. Apparently, a good chunk of criminals in Hell's Kitchen would probably be eating through straws for awhile. And yet, she was still here. And there was even a statement from Fisk himself, promising to end the vigilante's career. And, though it obviously didn't say so, Iris knew Fisk wanted to end more than that.

Her mouth went dry, and she dropped the paper, letting it fall open on the way down. The content on the next page caught her eye too, and she slowly brought it closer to her again. _In Memory of Ben Urich…_

"Holy shit," she whispered, stomach squeezing.

"Iris," Owen started, but she was already getting up to leave. She wasn't sure _where_ she was going, but the exit was getting closer and closer…

Owsley's guards, who were mostly content to ignore the captives, started to shift a little. Owen grabbed her arm, yanking her back.

"What are you _doing_?" he hissed in her ear.

"Ben…" Iris's voice came out as a ragged whisper….. "he…Nelson and Murdock…if they got to _him,_ then…"

"You saw the headline," Owen was smart enough to keep her voice low. "He…"

"Could die because of your dumbass plan," she yanked her arm free. Took several more steps towards the guards. Owen step in front of her, grabbing her forearms. Owlsley's goons were all-out staring now, but Iris decided she didn't give a shit if she threw Owen under the bus by revealing herself.

"Iris, why know why…"

"You could have left him a helpful tip, not send him tearing across the city like a bat out of hell," she wound up a punch, but he caught her wrist this time.

"I left him a tip. A list of holdings the holdings, but it's for the practiced eye. He needs to…."

"A practiced eye? Owen, _think_ about what you just said to me. Regarding my _brother_. It's been _three days,_ Owen. What if…"

"Iris…"

"Don't 'Iris' me," she jerked free again, this time letting her voice ring out. Best to cover the whole thing up as just a quarrel anyway, try and keep up the pretense for her own safety. He moved to intercept her, but she held up her hands in warning. "I swear, Danvers, come one step closer and I will punch the shit out of you."

"I did this to protect you," Owen said, and damn if he wasn't achingly sincere. Which somehow pissed off Iris even more.

She let out a bitter, grating laugh. "I've taken care of myself my whole damn life, Owen."

* * *

Owsley's guards seemed relatively entrained by Iris and Owen's altercation, and Hoffman definitely got a kick out of it, but Iris couldn't care less about any of that. She was focused on the world outside, a world she couldn't get to. A world where her brother was recklessly tearing through the city—a city that hated him—to get to _her._ And with the real devil ready to take off his head.

She really was toxic.

"Alright, alright," the voice of one of the guards tore Iris from her thoughts. "Got the subs."

Iris turned her head, blinking. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten. That it was already dinner time.

"Thought it was pizza," one of the other guards replied.

"Too heavy to carry with the boxes," the first guard reached into the bag, tossing a sub to each one of the room's inhabitants. Iris caught hers, and stared at the foil wrapping. She didn't have much of an appetite.

"He call yet?"

"No. But we got eight minutes."

Iris looked up at that exchange, mouth going dry. By now, Iris knew Owlsley checked in daily. And if he didn't, he'd made it clear that could only mean one thing….

A loud bang echoed off the walls, one of the guards falling right in front of the couch, draped across Iris's feet. A bloody, mangled mug gapped back at her, a pool of scarlet rapidly collecting on the floor. Iris screamed, pulling her feet up.

"Shit," Owen yelled.

More gunshots rang out, Owlsley's guards falling one by one around them.

"Iris!" Owen yelled, diving for the couch. They tumbled off the back together, Iris slamming to the concrete floor with a _whoosh_ , Owen shielding her from the gunshots firing above her. She went rigid, shivering as she waited for the end.

Then, a flash of black over her head. The sound of screaming and more gunfire, bodies hitting the floor. Then nothing, Iris's panicked breathing echoing through the newly made silence.

"You!"

Hoffman's voice.

Owen was suddenly lifted off of her, tossed carelessly to the side. A strong hand yanking her to her feet. Then a bone-crushing hug. A wall of muscle, but one that was quaking just as much as she was. The familiarity of the touch was a dizzying relief.

"Are you okay?" Matty's voice was a thin whisper, barely enough to be heard by someone who had normal, unenhanced hearing. But Iris understood well enough. She nodded. The ripped up black shirt he wore in the mask was sweaty, rough against her cheek.

She let out a pent-up sob, shaking in her brother's arms. She knew he was already assessing her. Listening for broken bones, injuries of any kind. He was here, he was alive. He'd found her.

"Yes," she choked out. "I'm…"

"Give me a minute," he let go of her, stalking towards the terrified Hoffman, frozen in his usual place at the fold out table.

Matty approached, slowly pulling out the seat just opposite the trembling detective. The scrape of the chair was deliberate and slow, Matty letting the man stew in the tension. Hoffman sat there, unable to tear his gaze away from The Devil of Hell's kitchen. Matty sound down, pausing for a few pregnant seconds before speaking.

"You have an opportunity here, Detective," Matty's voice was low, a near-whisper. And that clearly terrified Hoffman more than screams of rage. "By turning in evidence on Fisk, you can set things right. If that's what you want." Another pause, Matty leaning forward just a fraction. "If not, you can sit here playing with yourself until Fisk sends more men to kill you."

Hoffman whimpered, Matty's stone-cold expression not shifting an inch.

"Decide," The Devil hissed.

"It won't make a difference," Hoffman cried. "He owns the cops. I'll be dead before I can testify—"

"Not all of them," Matty cut him off. "Turn yourself in to Brett Mahoney, you can trust him. And he has a couple of lawyers that can't be bought. They'll help you. And one more thing," Matty made a gesture in Iris's general direction, and it took here a minute to realize he wanted her to come forward. She took a shaky step, coming to his side. "You never saw this woman," Matty tilted his head in her direction. "She is coming with me when I leave here, and you're going to say nothing, and I do mean _nothing,_ about seeing her. You've never met her. And if you say a word about her, you try to run or do anything but what I just told you, you're going to wish I'd never saved you from that bullet."

"You're taking her with you?" Owen's voice sounded right behind her. Matty stepped around Iris, putting his face inches from Owen's.

"You're lucky I got here before they put a bullet in her," Matty growled. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from her after tonight."

"I'm not going to hurt her," Owen assured.

"You already have," Matty snarled, turning his attention back to Hoffman. "Better get going, Detective. Before Fisk sends more men."

Matt took Iris by the arm, and she numbly stumbled forward, not saying anything as she was lead out into the night. She tried not to puke when she had to step over the corpse of one of the guards to make it through the only exit. The alleyway they dumped out into was cramped and dirty, but the sounds of the city were like a lullaby. They put some distance between themselves and the building before she let exhaustion hit her. She fell quaking into Matty's arms. He was ready for her, bracing as her weight collapsed against him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, wrapping her in a hug. Like they were little and he was protecting her from a thunderstorm.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured. "I just…"

"It's okay," Matty shook his head. "You're lucky you're alive. And Owen's lucky that…"

"That you didn't break his jaw?" Iris guessed, quirking her eyebrow.

Matty laughed. "No, he's lucky _you_ didn't break his jaw."

"Not for lack of trying," Iris snorted, folding her arms.

"I have to tail Hoffman," Matty finally dropped the hug. "Walk a block down the street. Patrick's waiting to pick you up."

"Pick me up?"

"He's taking you back to my apartment," Matty said.

"And you?"

"I'm going to the precinct, let my other life see this through. It's almost over."

"How did you find me?"

"I really need to follow Hoffman," Matty shook his head. "Patrick will explain it. Are you okay to get there?"

"I'll be okay," she nodded, and she stood there and watched as he disappeared into the night.

"Be careful, Squirt," she whispered, barely hearing herself over the distant siren's.

* * *

Patrick picked her up in the van and the ride to Matty's apartment was quiet. Patrick was white-knuckling the wheel the whole time, and when he finally found parking near Matty's apartment, he held her hand very tightly on the way up. Iris didn't mind. She didn't feel safe until she was once again surrounded by the familiar light of the billboard.

The light was like a security blanket, and it struck her how comfortable she felt here. It was almost like…

She let that thought sink in, the weight of it bringing her to the couch. She let out a strained laugh, tears following just a half-second after. Patrick sat down at her side, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close.

"Want to talk about it?"

"It's just funny," she rubbed her face, taking a deep breath to compose herself. Ran her hands through her hair. "I looked around this apartment, and I thought…it almost feels like _home._ Do you know how long it's been since I felt that way?"

"Oh, Iris…"

"I reunited with Matty here. I've argued with him here. I've stitched him up here. I've helped take care of people he's saved here. Truth and lies and tears…all here. All the things I've been trying to get past….they're what make this place what it is. And this place…is almost like home."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, years and years of longing hitting her at once, rolling over her like a semi. And she sat there with Patrick, watching the billboard flicker, listening to the city around her.

* * *

She was woken up by the sound of a door closing, jerking her head off of Patrick's shoulder. Her neck twinged, stiff from sitting who knows how long at an awkward tilt. Patrick was out, the arm that had been wrapped around her draped limply at his side. Soft snores echoed through the apartment. It was still dark , but the sky outside was grey. Dawn was impending.

She turned her head to see Matty enter the living room, looking more energetic than she'd seen in awhile. She stood up, carefully so as not to wake Patrick. She jostled him but he didn't even stir. Heavy sleeper. "Hey, Squirt," Iris whispered.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, heading for the table.

"It's okay," she walked past him into the kitchen, started rummaging through his cabinets as quietly as she could. She set a pan out on his stove, cranking up the burner. "How did…"

"Hoffman and Owen spilled everything they knew," Matty said. "They gave names, dates. They'll be in protective custody for a little while, but….Fisk is finished."

She didn't know what to say, so she just kept working. She grabbed cheese and butter from the fridge, shut it with her hip.

"Grilled cheese?" Matty guessed, sensing her unwillingness to talk about it.

"Figured you were hungry."

Matty paused, letting out a long sigh. "I am, actually."

They didn't say anything else. Iris made three sandwiches—in case Patrick woke up—and brought them to the table with glasses of water. "I haven't had a grilled cheese since the last time you made me one," he admitted quietly. That made her pause, staring across at him.

"Iris?" she heard Patrick ask, shattering through the moment. His curls were a mess, which Iris had to admit she found slightly endearing.

"Sorry to wake you," she said.

"It's alright," Patrick came to the table, taking notice of the plates.

She frowned, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. "You were really out," she noted. "Have you been sleeping well?"

"You were poisoned, you were kidnapped…it's been a rough couple of days."

"It has," Matty admitted.

"But it's all over. We got him," Iris sighed, leaning back and letting her gaze pass between both men, and she was overwhelmed by it for a second. How much they both cared for her. How much she cared for both of them. For Foggy, for Karen. For Ian, Andy. Even Jo.

Somehow, without even looking, she was starting to form a new family.

* * *

Fisk and his associates went down fast and hard. The next morning, the FBI had swarmed Hell's Kitchen, hunting down all the names Hoffman and Owen had given. The news of it took over all the airways, TV and radio.

"I can't believe it," Jo was listening to a radio broadcast at their kitchen island, detailing the arrests. "I mean, it's been playing all morning, but I still can't…"

"Believe it," Iris said, walking over to the radio. She dialed it to the classical music station the two usually listened to when getting ready for work. "Libera me" from Faure's Requiem filled the apartment.

"Iris!" Jo gasped.

"Sorry, I'm getting a little tired of the Fisk coverage," Iris shrugged, pouring herself a mug of coffee.

"It's only been on the air for a half hour," Jo shrugged.

"I just got out of the hospital after being poisoned from his attempted assignation," Iris shook her head. She was thankfully Foggy, Matt, and Patrick had kept her kidnapping under wraps from people like Jo, Karen, and Andy. She was thankful she didn't have to come up with excuses or lies. "I've had my fill of Wilson Fisk."

"I'm so sorry," Jo said. "I didn't even…"

"It's fine. All fine," Iris took the other seat. "But, let's just…not talk about it, okay? Fisk is over. Done." Her life could finally move forward. _Matty's_ life could finally move forward.

"You're right. Happy subject change," Jo set down her mug. "I'm not _really_ supposed to tell you this. Mr. Aldridge wanted to surprise you with it. So, there's this off-Broadway theater Dr. Manson plays pit for. They write all their own musicals. Their composer is apparently a genius, fun to work with. Has some pretty awesome connections in the city."

"And?"

 _"And_ , Mr. Aldridge says they're looking for an oboist. He obviously recommended you."

"Really?"

"No, not really. I just like to tease my friends with fake opportunities," Jo laughed.

"I'm rubbing off on you."

"Maybe a little," Jo leaned back in her chair. She stared intently into her mug for a minute, sighing before she looked up at her roommate, "Hey, Iris?"

"Yeah?"

"I know…I know you've been through a lot since moving back. And I don't know your full backstory or anything. And, though it may not seem like it, I really don't mean to pry. I just….Well, you know, if you ever need to talk, I'm here, right?"

Iris allowed herself a tiny smile, "Thanks. That means a lot."

* * *

The Nelson and Murdock crew met at Josie's that night to celebrate. Everything was so different given their circumstances, and this time around Iris was able to see the charm her brother and his friends found in the little dive. Foggy ordered everyone their first round, pouring the glasses himself. More news coverage on Fisk played in the background, a triumphant

"Now the world knows just what kind of asshole Fisk is," Foggy raised his glass.

"Here, here," Iris declared, the group clinking glasses in agreement.

Matty smiled, setting down his glass after his first swig. "See," he said. "This. Right here. _This_ is how it should be. Knowing the people I care about are safe. And having some sense of closure for the ones we've lost."

Foggy nodded, holding out his glass again. "For Elena."

Karen put hers up, "For Ben."

"And everyone else that son of a bitch has hurt," Patrick agreed.

Foggy almost choked on his drink. "Patrick, I didn't know you _knew_ how to swear."

"I'm a bad influence on him," Iris shrugged.

"That I can believe, Murdock."

The levity continued from there. There was none of the excess of the night of Elena's wake, but there were enough drinks for at least a happy buzz. The old jukebox in the corner popped and hissed out a pleasant background drone. They swapped stories, bantered back and forth.

Matty was right. _This_ was how it should be.

This….this may actually be what she was looking for.

Familiar lyrics jumped out at Iris, and she looked over her shoulder to see Patrick standing by the jukebox. "Really?" she called to him. "Goo Goo Doll's Iris? Do you know how many guys in my lifetime have tried to use this song to pick me up?"

 _"You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever get,"_ Foggy sang at an embarrassing volume. _"And I don't want to go home right now."_

Karen laughed into her hands. Iris threw her head back, "Matty, help me."

"Oh no. I've got a lot of years of embarrassing my older sister to catch up on."

 _"And I don't want the world to see me,"_ Foggy squawked, " _cause I don't think that they'd understand."_

Patrick came up to the table, shaking his head. "I didn't expect to get a Foggy Nelson concert. I kind of hoped you'd like to dance."

"Dancing to a song I hate in a dive bar while my brother's best friend reinvents tonality in the background," she took his hand. "I couldn't think of anything more romantic."

And, for a brief second, Iris's world was damn near perfect.

For a brief second, her life wasn't the least bit complicated. It was just a group of friends at Josie's, butchering Goo Goo Dolls songs and enjoying cheap beer. And, she could almost pretend she could ignore all that had gotten them to this point.

Almost.

The couple headed back to the table, Iris spotting a missed call on her cell. From Owen. Reality hit her harsh and fast.

"Gotta make a call," she muttered, instantly unsettled. She swiped her phone, letting herself out into the night.

The sound of the bar were only slightly muted out on the street, her perfect night so close and yet so far. She almost didn't want to dial, but she knew she had to. Owen was supposed to be in protective custody. He wasn't supposed to have his phone.

" _He has a plan,"_ Owen didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Who? And…how do you have your phone? Owen, what is going on?"

" _Fisk,"_ Owen said. _"He's going to escape. This isn't over. Not by a long shot."_

"What do you mean…"

"Iris," Patrick rushed out of the bar, white as a sheet. "Come inside. Now."

Blood roared in Iris's ears. She kept speaking into the phone. "Owen, what's…"

"Just come in," Patrick ushered her inside.

The rest of their group was at their table, looking as sheet-white as Patrick.

Iris followed Foggy and Karen's gazes to the old TV, where pure chaos had broken out. The channel was showing Fisk's transport, as it had been frequently that night, but this time it was different. The armored truck was at a dead stop, surrounded by police vehicles. The back of the truck was wide open, dead cops littering the scene.

Iris slapped her hand over her mouth.

Of course it wasn't over. Of course it wasn't that simple.

Fisk wasn't finished at all. And he'd tear Hell's Kitchen apart to keep his freedom.

* * *

 **Iris by Goo Goo Dolls. Yess.**

 **So, also the song on the radio in the scene with Jo and Iris, Libera me from Faure's requiem, is actually going to be v significant for the installment. My choir performed a "requiem tapestry" program this year, where we took different movements from different requiems (and sometimes just Mass Ordinaries). Fun fact: I sang the soprano solo in Kyrie from Schubert's Mass in G Major.**

 **For those of you who don't know, in Catholic tradition, a Requiem is a mass for the dead.**

 **The Libera me movement is essentially about seeking repentance, more or less.**

 **I am still undecided as to which one fits better, but the chapter names for Devil's Penance (the next installment) will either come from the Libera me or Lacrimosa movements.**

 **I also think Faure's setting of Libera me just screams Daredevil to me. It just** _ **fits.**_ **Give it a listen! I prefer the Cambridge Singers' recording.**

 **Okay, I've gushed about music enough!**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **See you soon for the last chapter of this installment!**


	13. Home Sweet Hell

**Here it is everyone.**

 **Lucky thirteen! The last chapter!**

* * *

 _Home Sweet Hell_

"We were idiots," Karen shouted, shrugging on her coat at the group rushed out of Josie's. " _Celebrating._ Thinking it would be that easy with a man like him."

Foggy shook his head. "We'd better get out of here before they close down the streets or something." He gave Matt a sidelong glance before hailing down a cab. Foggy went for the door, guiding Karen inside.

"Get her home," Matty said. "Patrick, you take Iris…"

"You're not seriously suggesting we split up right now. Matt, we're not leaving you," Karen insisted, starting to get out of the car. Foggy moved to block her.

"My place is the furthest away," Matty was already walking away. "I'll be alright."

"I'll get him a cab," Foggy said.

Iris heard Karen shouting his name before he slammed the door, rushing after Matt. Through the window, Karen glared at Iris. A stab of guilt worked its way through Iris's system before she, too, ran after Matty.

"You heard what's going on out there," Foggy was saying when Iris caught up to them. Patrick was trailing silently behind. "You can't go after him in your black pajamas."

"I won't be."

"Matty…" Iris took a step forward.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you," Matty caught her, wrapped her in a hug, "but I need you guys to trust me. I know what I'm doing."

She felt him push her backward, towards Foggy, who caught her. "Matty.." she said thinly, but Foggy nodded to him over her head.

"Okay. Go be a hero, Buddy. Just don't get killed doing it."

And, he got into the cab, taking off after a madman.

"I'll take her to Matt's," Patrick took Iris's arm. "He'd want me to take her there."

"I'll take Karen home," Foggy agreed. "Good luck. Call me if he calls you. If you hear _anything_."

"We will," Patrick said, because Iris's lips seemed to be inoperable at the moment.

She moved on auto pilot, unable to shake the terror building up inside of her. The last time he'd gone after Fisk….

Patrick closed the door of their cab, gave the driver Matt's home address.

"No. We can't," she shook her head. The driver, who was about to move forward, looked at her through the rearview mirror.

"Iris, there's nothing we can do. We've got to get going before…"

"You guys going somewhere or what?"

"Yes," Patrick said. "I'm sorry, she's just a little nervous. What, with Fisk escaping his transport…"

The driver rolled his eyes, training his gaze forward again.

Iris shot her boyfriend an acidic glare, but stayed silent as they took off. The drive to Matty's apartment was longer than ever, Iris flinching at the sound of any siren. Patrick was holding her hand, thumb gently rubbing the inside of her palm.

They were silent the rest of the ride, and all the way up to the apartment. When she stepped inside, before Patrick even crossed the entryway, her hair stood on end, something tugging at her instincts and turning her stomach. When Owen stepped out of the shadows, he almost met the knife she'd grabbed from her purse. He caught her wrist.

"You've attacked me enough in the past few days," he muttered, giving her a twisted grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't like it when we fight."

"Stick it up your…."

"You must be Owen," Patrick stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"The boyfriend," Owen crossed his arms.

"What are you doing here?" Iris wasn't in the mood to deal with awkward meetings. Not with Fisk on the loose and Matty tearing after him. "Matty said you were taken into protective custody. How did you get out? How are Fisk's men not hunting you down…"

"Do you want to interrogate me, or do you want to come with me and make sure Fisk gets what's coming to him?"

Iris took a step back. "What do you mean?"

"Going after Fisk, Iris. Helping your brother."

"You're joking, right?" Patrick stepped between them. "Matt told her to stay here and wait."

Owen rolled his eyes. "I thought you two were dating. Do you even _know_ Iris?"

"What did you have in mind, Owen?" Iris spoke up before Patrick could say anything.

"Does your brother even know where to start, finding Fisk? Tracking his complicated escape route through the cacophony of noises? What if I told you I can track Fisk, help Matty from the ground?"

"How…"

"Come with me," Owen took a step forward. "Trust me."

"Owen, how can I trust you? After you.."

"Then don't trust me," he held up his hands. "But, if I know anything about you—and I'd to think I _do—_ I know you'd do anything to make sure your brother is safe. And don't tell me you'd rather spend the whole the night waiting and hoping for him to come back in one piece."

She looked over her shoulder at Patrick, whose face hadn't shifted a fraction. He pulled her close, planting a gentle kiss on her lips. "Do what you have to do," he whispered against her forehead. "But please, come back alive."

* * *

"Holy shit," Iris gasped, when they approached Owen's vehicle. The engine purred to life when he touched the remote start on the keys. "I thought you were supposed to be _hiding_ from Fisk. You think driving an _Aston Martin_ around Hell's Kitchen isn't going to attract attention?"

"Fisk created pure pandemonium with his escape. We're not going to need to be inconspicuous, we're going to need to be fast," Owen shrugged. "Besides, uh, the person who loaned me this car…she, uh….she doesn't exactly deal in inconspicuous."

"Who gave you this car?"

"My girlfriend," Owen ducked into the vehicle, slamming the door before Iris had time to process.

"Sorry…your _what?"_ she dove into the car.

"What, I'm not allowed to be seeingsomeone?" Owen found the gas pedal, peeling off into the street. The engine revved, sounding every bit as expensive as the car looked.

"Okay, so she's not my _girlfriend_ ," he admitted. "We barely even like each other. It's more like, when we're both feeling lonely…we, uh…."

"Don't finish that sentence, _please_."

"Jealous?"

Iris rolled her eyes. "Stopping Fisk now, being a sarcastic asshole later."

He was quite for a moment, rocketing through the city streets in a manner that had Iris's stomach in her throat. At least Owen seemed to have a pretty good handle on the beast. Apparently, his filthy-rich paramour had let him handle the car plenty of times.

Their stop wasn't that far away, and after a short drive, Owen parked the car in front of another apartment building. "So, you're just going to _leave_ this car…again…."

"I'm locking it."

"…in _Hell's Kitchen._ "

"Relax, this isn't even her good one. Come on, we don't have time for this."

Iris rolled her eyes, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket as she trotted after her friend. He went to the call box, punching in a code too quickly for Iris to see.

 _"You're shitting me, Danvers,"_ a husky female voice crackled from the speakers. _"Do you have a death wish? Do you realize how much Fisk has it in for you?"_

"Just let me up," Owen said.

An irate sigh, and they were buzzed in. Owen waved Iris inside the building, and the two boarded the rickety elevator. When Owen found the door of his friend, he only knocked once before a very irate-looking young woman opened the door. She was pretty, in an unkempt sort of way. She had dark brown hair, swept up in a ramshackle bun, and wore a hoodie and sweatpants. She topped it all off with an acidic glare, pointed towards

"Harlowe," he said, obviously not phased.

"Do you have any _idea_ what could happen if Fisk knows you're here?"

"I'm thinking maybe he's a little busy escaping to pay me mind."

"What do you want?" Harlowe put a hand on her hip, then she looked right at Iris. "Who's that?"

"A friend."

"Wait," Harlowe frowned, "that's the oboist. She looks awfully good for someone who drank poison recently. Definitely looks better than Vanessa."

"The miracles of modern medicine."

"Just come in, Danvers," Harlowe swung open the door, gesturing them inside. The apartment was pure chaos, food and clothes and empty soda cans everywhere. And, right in the living room—or what Iris thought was supposed to be a living room—right in front of the laundry-covered couch, was a whole array of screens and computer towers. Harlow slammed the door. "You're lucky Fisk doesn't have security on me tonight, Danvers. After you went AWOL, Fisk was mental. You're pretty high on his shit list, particularly after Owlsley told him you'd struck a deal."

"Fisk's been nothing but mental lately."

"What do you need?"

"For you to hack into Fisk's comm. network. Get a location on him."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me," Owen sounded impressively nonchalant. "You designed the network, should be easy for you to infiltrate."

"And why the hell do you want to know where Fisk is? He wants to _kill_ you."

"It's for a friend."

"This friend?" Harlowe inclined her head towards Iris.

"No another friend," Owen said. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"Holy shit," Harlowe shook her head. She turned on a heel, going over to her display. She sat down, pulling on her headset, typing furiously.

Owen looked at the comm in his hands, then at Harlowe. "Thanks."

"Oh, this isn't a favor, Danvers. You'll owe me," and she turned back to the screens.

"I know, I know," Owen held up his hands. He turned to Iris, raising a brow. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Call him."

"You think he'll answer?"

"Well, he's either hot on the trail of Fisk already, and doesn't need us, is already fighting Fisk, and doesn't need us, or he'll answer."

There were other alternatives, ones Iris didn't want to entertain, but she decided to ignore it. Take the Hail Mary and call the burner. All the praying she did when she dialed apparently worked, because it only rang three times before….

 _"Hello?"_

"It's me…"

 _"Iris, I'm…"_

"Tracking Fisk. Or, um, failing at it, judging by the fact that you took the time to answer the burner."

 _"Iris, this isn't the time for you to…"_

"Shut up and listen," she snapped. "I'm not waiting around all night for you to come back. Owen's got a com, is hacked into Fisk's network. We can hear what they're saying. We're tracking him."

 _"You're tracking Fisk? Iris, that's…"_

"You want to find the son of a bitch or not? Look, I'm miles away from wherever the action is, so stop worrying."

"There!" Harlowe's voice rang out. Iris ran up to the screen, pointing to a blip that had shown up.

"Gotcha," Iris said. "Alright, he's…." she gave the address, and she heard Matty's breathing pick up instantly.

 _"Thank you. That'll be enough to help me find him…"_

"Wait…" but the line when dead instantly, leaving nothing but silence.

"You two'd better go," Harlowe got up, walking to the door. "I was only in for a second, but, if they detected a hack…"

"Got it," Owen grabbed Iris's arm, leading her out of the apartment. Before he left, he turned to Harlowe, breaking out into a small smile. "Thank you, Olivia, Really."

Her glare returned, " _You_ don't get to call me Olivia, Danvers."

And she slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Miraculously, the car was still there when they got out.

They sat inside for a moment, not moving, and Iris stared at the burner. "So, here I am again…..waiting. The last time he went after, Fisk…."

Owen frowned, tightening his grip on the wheel. "Your brother's pretty impressive, Iris."

"My dad always did the right thing," Iris whispered. "Or….tried to. But…" she cut herself off, shaking her head. "I guess just…take me back to Matty's. I'll wait this out with Patrick. Owen, I can't thank you enough for…"

"I can do you one better," he said, shifting in his seat.

"What?"

"What if you didn't have to wait around, waiting for him to come back. What if you…followed Fisk too?"

"Are you insane?"

"I mean, it's your choice," he shrugged. "But, if you really don't want to wait around seeing if he'll make it through the night, then don't. We got the coordinates. Besides, I have my gun."

"Owen, are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he nodded. "I'm not suggesting you take on the guy in hand to hand. Leave that to Matty, but you don't have to sit around waiting, either."

She took a deep breath, weighing her options. She was so sick of being a bystander, waiting around and begging every saint she knew things would turn out okay. This may be the stupidest decision ever, but it was her choice.

"Drive."

* * *

They drove at an alarming speed, Hell's Kitchen passing in a blur around them as they sped towards the location Harlowe had given them. Iris wondered if they'd even find anything, or if they'd missed a window. Fisk was surely moving quickly in attempt to escape the city. Even with the location, it was a stretch to….

"There!" Owen slammed on the breaks, Iris pitching forward in her seat. An overturned truck was lying in the middle of the street, Fisk stumbling out of the wreck. Two stunned guards limped out after him. And on top of the truck…

"Really?"

Matty had fully embraced the "devil" imagery. No longer dressed in simple black, blending into the night. He was now in red Kevlar suit, sleek and practical, a horned helmet adorning his head.

Fisk's men came to life, raining fire down on Matty, trying to pepper him with bullets.

"Stay here," Owen grabbed his gun, throwing open the car door.

"Wait," Iris called, but he'd already slammed the door, rushing into the firefight. He fired a shot towards one of Fisk's accomplices, clipping the guy's shoulder, but the other man took notice, returning the favor. The gunshot that got him seemed louder than all the others, but maybe that was her imagination.

She watched Owen fall in slow motion, and she faintly heard herself screaming his name, throwing open the car door.

Her voice pierced through the night, and it was enough to pause the action for a brief second. Matty was thrown as well, too stunned by her presence to seize the opportunity.

"Forget her! Get the Devil of Hell's Kitchen!" Fisk shouted, and the gunshots started up again.

Iris raced to Owen's side, blood roaring in her ears, blocking out the war going on just feet away. It didn't matter. They weren't focused on her. Matty was the real target, and he was going to steer the fighting away from her. He was probably so mad at her for showing up he'd want the honor of killing her himself. But even that didn't shake her when she saw the blood leaking out onto Owen's shirt.

"This is…a bit ironic, isn't it?" he wheezed, offering a half smile.

"You're an idiot," she hissed, shrugging off her jacket. Yes, the familiarity was sickening. She pressed it to the wound on his side.

"Iris…" he looked up at her, and she saw the little glimmer that had gotten her through so many late nights of theory homework. That had been a refuge in an unbearable life. That had been a spark of freedom in Iris's trapped existence.

"Don't," she shook her head. "We're not doing the bullshit thing where you say pretty last words. First off, your emotional speeches suck, and secondly, you're not going to die."

Before he could say anything, Iris felt an iron-tight grip on her arm, and she was yanked to her feet with so much force it almost dislocated her shoulder. She met the eyes of Wilson Fisk—wild and wide, like that of a cage animal. His whole face sheened with sweat, his breaths quick and heavy. "You shouldn't have come here, Miss Murdock," he growled. "Danvers was already a dead man, standing with him was fruitless. But regardless, I'm glad you did. You've become very useful."

He dragged her along, strides ahead of her. She was tripping after him, blind terror seizing up her legs so that he was practically dragging her along the ground. He made a sharp turn around the corner, but what he must have thought would be his escape turned out to be a dead-end alleyway.

He bellowed in rage, tossing her to the side like a ragdoll. She fell to the pavement, unforgiving asphalt tearing right through her stockings. Fisk beat on the wall, screaming, then picked Iris back into a headlock. "I'll kill her!" he swore, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of Matty. "You come any closer, I'll kill her!"

Iris heard laugher, hysterical, breathy laughter, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her making the sound. "And what is so funny, Miss Murdock?" Fisk hissed in her ear.

"You thought taking me as leverage, threatening my life, was a smart move. But it's not. Because you just made the biggest mistake of your life," she saw Matty drop from a fire escape, blocking off Fisk's path out of the alleyway. He was holding the short-sticks that Stick had given him. "You pissed off the devil."

She kicked back, hard—summoning every scrap of her father in her—and found Fisk's kneecap. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He grunted, slacking his grip, and Iris slipped away, scrambling back to the wall of the alley. Fisk didn't seem to care, his attention was all on Matty now.

"I wanted to make this city something better than it is. Something beautiful," Fisk yelled, his voice bouncing off the alley walls. Iris shrank back against the brick. "YOU TOOK THAT AWAY FROM ME!" a reckless lunge forward, an animalistic glint in his eyes. "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Matty, calm and cool as ever, didn't even flinch. He simply returned the sticks to the holsters built into his new suit. "Take your shot."

Fisk bellowed, charging the Devil like a raging bull, but Matty was quicker. A blur of red, he vaulted over Fisk, grabbing his shoulder on the way over. Fisk was airborne for a mesmerizing second, before he fell hard and fast to the ground. Matty didn't stop there, landing a flip-kick while the man was down. But, then his true Murdock side took over and the fists starting flying.

Matty only had the upper hand for a brief second, though, Fisk finally getting in a good shot and managing to get back up. They exchanged a few evenly matched blows before Fisk grabbed Matty by the shoulder, driving his massive forehead into the very center of the helmet, then tossing Matty to the side like a rag doll.

Iris yelped when her brother hit the dumpster, flopping to ground in a limp pile of limps of Kevlar. He tried to crawl away, but Fisk was a caged animal. He grabbed Matty again, slamming his against the brick wall. Then, as Matty tried to stagger off, rushed him, sending him right to the ground. But, in true Murdock fashion, Matty got right back up.

"Come on," Fisk urged, and Matty charged him again. Fisk was ready. He grabbed Matty, lifting him up above his head and, with a loud bellow, slammed him down into the unforgiving concrete. Even from a distance, Iris heard the breath whoosh out of her brother's body. He squirmed on the ground, groaning. And Fisk took full advantage, landing blow after blow.

"Get up!" Iris found herself screaming. " _Get up, Dammit."_

But Matty stayed down, and Fisk kept going.

"This city," Fisk said between hits, "doesn't deserve a better tomorrow. It deserves to drown it its filth! It deserved people like you! People like my father."

A loud crack whistled through the air, and Fisk yelped, clutching at his shoulder. A small patch of blood leaked through his fingers. Iris blinked, seeing Owen stand at the end of the alleyway, clutching his side. He staggered to the side, propping himself up by the brick wall.

"Danvers!" Fisk yelled, and it was distraction enough.

Matty was back up. "This is my city," he said. "My family." And, fists were flying again. Matty had gotten out his short sticks, and finally let the devil out.

Iris bolted for Owen, getting on her knees in front of him. "You idiot," she scolded. "You're not a murder…you could have…"

"No," Owen shook his head. "Wouldn't have been able to kill him. Suit is…" Owen waved a hand. "Just trying to distract him…for…Devil…."

Iris looked over her shoulder, watching as Matty grabbed the upper hand. With in moments of receiving blow after angry blow, Fisk was turning delirious in. He was bloody now. Both men were bloody. And terrifying.

"You think this will make a difference?" Fisk wheezed. "You think…one man…in a silly little costume, will change anything?"

Matty didn't reply. Only when for the knockout. He screamed, winding up enough momentum in his fist. And, in a true homage to Battlin' Jack, landed a final blow. Fisk blacked out, head lulling to the concrete. Everything was still for a few seconds, both Murdocks holding their breaths to make sure it was well and truly over.

Iris let out a sob she hadn't realize she'd been holding, getting shakily to her feet. She looked over her shoulder, to where Owen had been, and found nothing but a patch of his blood on the brick. Of course.

Squeaking, she stepped over Fisk's unconscious form, falling into Matty's waiting arms. He held her tight, like he was afraid to let her go. And, in all honesty, she was afraid to let _him_ go.

"Way…to…" she blubbered out, chest heaving…."keep your…gloves up."

He held her at arm's length, frowning. "You know it was incredibly stupid to come here, right?"

"So stupid."

The wail of a siren sounded behind them, and a squad car came into the alley. A young, dark skinned cop jumped out, gun drawn. "Police!" he yelled.

Matty grabbed Iris's forearm, drawing her behind him.

"Show me your hands," the cop insisted. "Do it."

"I told you before," Matty said, gently nudging Iris forward. "I'm not the bad guy."

The cop lowered his gun, finally recognizing this "new" perp as The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. "Holy shit," the cop said. "It's you."

"This man was a fugitive from the law," Matty indicated Fisk's prone form. Then nudged Iris forward another step. " And this woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wilson Fisk took her as leverage. Figured using an innocent against me would play out to his advantage. He figured wrong. We good?"

Brett remained silent, going for his radio. "Fifteen Sergeant Central. Be advised. Wilson Fisk, under K. North alley, four-six and ten. One hostage, now safe."

 _"Copy that,"_ came the reply.

Brett knelt down, cuffing Fisk.

"So," the cop asked, "what am I supposed to call you, when I file my report?"

But Matty had already taken off, leaping up the fire escape and taking off across the rooftops.

"Of course," the Sergeant sighed, looking over to Iris. "We'll get you back to the precinct. Is there someone we can call for you?"

"Franklin Nelson," Iris said. Matty would need time to shed the devil.

"Shit," the cop shook his head.

"What? You know Foggy?"

"Him and Matthew Murdock are real pains in my ass,"

Iris knew who this man was now. "Brett Mahoney," she said. "They've mentioned you." She looked to the fire escape, where Matty made his getaway. "If it's any consolation, they're both real pains in my ass too."

* * *

They asked Iris a few questions when they took her to the Fifteenth, but it was mostly a short affair, and soon she was delivered safely into the embrace of Foggy Nelson right in front of the desk. She realized she'd never hugged Foggy before, but being wrapped up in his hug was oddly comforting. "Are you okay?" his eyes were scanning her, checking for any injuries. She found the similarity to Matty charming.

"Fine," she nodded. Her chest felt incredibly light. Fisk was away, for real this time.

"Everything is fine. _Better_ than fine."

* * *

"Daredevil," Karen shook her head, looking up from the newspaper she was currently holding. "That's what they're calling him now. The man in the mask."

Iris and Patrick had joined the Nelson and Murdock crew outside their office building, where the group was currently watching Foggy attach their new—non-sharpie—to the building.

"Daredevil?" Foggy snorted. "Sounds like he's gonna jump Snake River Canyon on his rocket cycle."

Matt and Iris burst into laughter.

"Kinda does, doesn't it?" Matty agreed.

"Okay, okay," Karen grinned. "I thought it was goofy too, at first. It kind of grows on you. Better than The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, anyway."

"Certainly a lot less syllables," Patrick nodded.

"I can't believe this is the same guy that stopped that Union Allied nut from stabbing me in my apartment," Karen shook her head. She examined the picture, which had an artist's rendering of the new suit. "That is a serious upgrade."

"I don't know, I think the horns are a bit much."

Iris snorted as Foggy backed away from the sign, displaying his handiwork. "What do you think?"

Matt approached the small sign, running his hand over the metal plaque. "Nelson and Murdock," he said, quirking his mouth into a half-smile. "Avocados at Law." Foggy chuckled.

"Avocados?" Iris raised an eyebrow.

"It's a long story," Foggy said, checking his watch. "Which I don't have time to tell you. I promised Marci I'd help her find a new job since most of the Partners at Landman and Zack are under indictment."

"Whoa, whoa," Iris held up he hands. "Meat grinder in a pencil skirt, Marci?"

"Yeah," Foggy gave a sheepish grin. "She kind of…well, you were out, she actually helped us out with our investigation into Fisk. The stuff she got for us is going to go a long way into putting him away for good. So, turns out she's….not so bad."

Iris caught something in the look on his face, something about his tone. "Wait are you two…uh…"

"I never kiss and tell, Iris Murdock," Foggy winked. "But…uh…maybe."

"Well," Matty chuckled, "thank her for us."

"And we owe Owen a thank you," Karen said, softly. "Wherever he is."

Iris squirmed a little, and Foggy jumped to her rescue.

"I'll definitely tell her. See you guys tomorrow," Foggy tossed a wave over his shoulder, taking off down the street.

"Well," Iris looped her arm through Patrick's. "We've gotta take off, too. We've got a coffee date before my audition."

"Audition?" Karen asked.

"Yeah. Mr. Aldridge found an opportunity for me at a local theater. Gonna see if I sink or swim."

"Kick ass," Matty smiled.

"Always do," punched his upper arm. "We're still on for dinner tomorrow night, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Take care, you guys!" Karen said, hugging Iris before the couple headed off.

Iris had a smile on her face the whole way to the coffee shop.

* * *

Owen woke up the sight of the sunrise over crystal blue waters, a gentle, slightly chilly breeze, leaking through the open windows. He reached out across the bed, feeling nothing up empty sheets. The shower running finally caught his senses. He sighed deeply, slowly getting up, his side protesting just slightly. Grabbing his pants from where they'd been discarded on the floor the previous night and then pulling on the old sweatshirt sticking out of his suitcase. He let himself out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and drinking in the silence of the morning.

"I told you Malta is lovely this time of year," slender, strong arms wrapped themselves around his middle. Long, wet hair soaked through his sweatshirt.

"You're right."

"Come back inside," the whisper, directly in his ear, was enticing. He knew it was all hollow—everything they did was hollow, but they both knew it. They were distraction from each other. "You've earned a break. That stupid war isn't here yet, so let's worry about it later. I need to clear my head. And so do you."

So, he followed her inside, and they cleared their heads together.

* * *

The first few weeks after Fisk were calm. Quiet. Or as quiet as things could ever be for Matt Murdock. The firm started getting a steady stream of interested clients, the press attention brought on by Fisk's arrest bringing a lot of attention Nelson and Murdock's way. "Daredevil" (Iris was still getting used to that name) didn't take days off per say, but the terrifying one-track mindedness that Matty had when Fisk was on the streets had slowed way down.

Enough for Matt and Iris to finally rest on the somewhat solid footing they'd gained. She went over often, even opting for weekly dinners with him and taking her daily lunch hour with the Nelson and Murdock family.

It was during one of their weekly dinners when he showed it to her. She'd come with the cheap wine, as was her end of the bargain, and the smell of salmon hit her nose when he opened the door. He'd gone to the fish market with Foggy the night before, when the two had bantered over what Matty should cook. It was all so normal and simple, a homemade meal and no talk of vigilantes or kingpins.

They covered work, Nelson and Murdock's growing load, the progress of her students, Andy's stories, and Iris's new position at the local theater. It was casual, perfect, free from accusations. No worry, guilt. No damn apologies.

It was halfway through the supermarket cheesecake when he got quiet, setting down his fork. "Hey, I...I've been meaning to ask you something."

The tone scared her a little bit, and he obviously read her heartbeat because he rushed to clarify. "Please, don't get worried. This isn't like that."

She found it incredibly easy to ignore the part of her that nagged, saying that eventually the other shoe would drop and things would be _like that_ again. But not tonight, not now, so she just sipped her glass of box wine and asked, "What's up, Squirt?"

Matty leaned in his seat, trying to make this as casual as possible. "I have Dad's old gear in the box where I keep my suit. You know that. There's um...one more thing in there. Something...something I need your help to sort through."

"Oh?"

"I think maybe it was supposed to go to you, but because of Manson it never happened so..." he shrugged. "I'll show you."

"So show me."

Iris followed him to the cabinets, watching as he pulled out the trunk where he hid Daredevil. She knew the new Kevlar suit, and the corny horned helmet, were in that false bottom, but Matty didn't go for that. He went for their dad's stuff, shifting around the robes and lifting out an old shoebox. He held it out to Iris like an offering, a silent request for her to take it. She did, lifting the weathered cardboard. She gasped at the contents, finally realizing why they were "lost" on Matty.

"I didn't even know dad had these many photographs tucked away."

"Iris, could you...describe them for me? I've had it for so long, but being able to tell that it's a photograph is different then, well, an actual photograph."

"Bring the wine to the couch," was all Iris said. Matty obliged, and soon they had the box between them, wine in hand.

Iris picked up the first picture, throat constricting when she saw it. "Holy shit," she whispered.

"What?" her tidal wave of emotion was so easily gleaned with his senses.

"Matty, this one's us," she half-laughed, half-cried. "You have to be just a few months old in this."

"Really?"

"We're wearing these dorky matching pajamas-they have elephants on them-and we're curled up in Dad's bed, sound asleep."

"Dad put us in matching pajamas?" Matty was laughing, but there was a strain to it. Tears, bubbling below the surface. Iris could relate.

"Matching elephant pajamas," she corrected. "Grandma Murdock probably bought them, and he took the picture to appease her before he set them on fire or something. Not gonna lie, though, you were a cute kid. A shame time wrecked that."

"If I knew what your face looked like, I'd have a stellar comeback," he laughed.

"I found your second birthday," Iris picked up another snapshot. She choked on a laugh. "I forgot you went face first in the cake." It was a picture of Matty in a high-chair, frosting all over his chubby-cheeked little mug.

"I did not."

"Oh you so did. I actually remember this. You were wearing this nice shirt Grandma Murdock bought you and you just face-planted into the cake. She was horrified. Dad could not stop laughing. That was the day I realized you'd grow up to be a pain in the ass."

"Took you that long?"

"I've always been an optimistic soul."

He made little grunting noise, a laugh wrenched out from his diaphragm, and set down his wine glass.

"Foggy, Karen, and Patrick can't know about any of this."

Iris laughed. "There's blackmail in here for me too. This is another Murdock sibling secret."

"Right. Of course," his voice was far-off, thoughtful.

"What?" she didn't have to hear heartbeats or respiration patterns to know he had something on his mind.

"Nothing," and when he realized neither of them bought that, "It's just...this is nice. Good. I just hope..."

"Please don't go there," Iris shook her head. "Things have been so calm, the city loves Daredevil, you and Foggy are okay." A pause. "We're okay. Don't say it."

"I'm just thinking, Fisk is gone, but this city...Crime isn't gone, Iris. I crushed the head of the snake but..."

"New York's organized crime isn't a snake, it's a hydra. The head's gonna grow back. But as long as the head isn't another Fisk..." No, she couldn't—wouldn't—try to brave another Fisk. At least not right then.

"I can't guarantee that."

"I've stopped expecting you to," Iris shrugged. "But, for now, please, _please_ let's just enjoy...this." She waved the picture in her hand around.

"Fair," Matt grabbed another picture. "What's this one?"

The sorted through the whole box that night, going back and forth and sharing old stories. At the end of the night, Iris kissed her brother's cheek, shouldering her purse.

"Gotta get up early tomorrow. Moved my shifts at Ethan's to the mornings, for my last two weeks."

"Dad would be really proud of you."

"You too," Iris really meant that.

"And one more thing," Matty said, grinning. Iris embrace for what was going next. "You tell Patrick if he is going to make out with you, at least use aftershave that doesn't reek. One of you smelling like it is one person too many."

"Shut it, Squirt."

Iris left the apartment, the sun finally fully set. She knew that Daredevil would be out for the night, but she found herself strangely able to settle in. She set the photo of her and Matty in their dorky pajamas on her bedside, and fell asleep to the sounds of Hell's Kitchen.

Of home.

* * *

 **And that's a wrap everyone!**

 **Honestly, this had been such a fun adventure for me, through and through. I've been blessed by the positive reception, and really just had a blast writing Iris.**

 **I'm eager to get the next installment going, of course! Devil's Penance coming soon.**

 **Also, a question for you guys: My best friend, who is my undying supporter and I love her so very much, has given me so, so many head cannons over the course of me writing this. I am actually debating starting a Devil's Kindred-verse one shot series with all these head cannons (their will be a lot of baby Iris and Matt, to post in concurrence with the installments). Let me know if that is something you guys would want.**

 **For now, it's been real.**

 **See you when I start season two. So much looking forward to working with Elektra and Frank.**

 **Also, I feel like I pretty thinly disguised the identity of Owen's um…** _ **friend.**_

 **I actually put a lot of Easter Eggs in this, some very obvious. Some…not so much. There is one particularly very well hidden Agents of SHIELD one in Devil's Maker.**

 **I'm talking a lot, aren't I? Oh well, I guess it's just hard to believe this installment is finished!**


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